


The Adventure of the Civil Partnership

by Rairakku1234



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Civil Partnership, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Romance, Same-Sex Marriage, Serial Killers, Undercover As Gay, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 94,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rairakku1234/pseuds/Rairakku1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are hunting a kidnapper who has been taking newlywed couples across the Greater London Area and Sherlock has the perfect way to flush him out. Warning: Pre-Slash/Slash of Sherlock/John Work in Progress</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash, Eventual Descriptions of Violence.
> 
> Beta Reader: The Amazing Ivory Winter – All mistakes are mine

Chapter 1 Engagement

"John **,** we will be getting married tomorrow morning prior to your shift at the surgery."

"New case?" John asked after a moment, working very hard to maintain his composure and keep his thoughts private at this unexpected announcement from his eccentric flatmate. It helped that he was in his chair reading the London Evening Standard, and therefore hadhis face covered.

"Hmmm…" Sherlock responded from his thinking pose on the couch. John always felt inclined to snort at the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath when he draped himself on the couch in this dramatic pose. That was when the position didn't make John want to inspect Sherlock’s arms for too many nicotine patches, or worse – although there had only been two danger nights since Sherlock had returned from being ‘dead’ eight months ago.When John was in less worried moods he thought Sherlock looked a bit like a swooning damsel from a previous era when the detective posed himself so theatrically on the couch.

"Sherlock, are you planning on enlightening me as to why we have apparently become engaged, or should I just make myself look like an idiot by attempting to deduce the reason?" John asked with more than a touch of sarcasm after a long moment when Sherlock didn't bother to continue.

Sherlock flashed him a quick grin, elevating John's heart rate, as he jumped up from the couch and strode over the table to the fireplace. "Do you remember Mr. Williams?"

"Yes of course **.** He came by, what, a little over a week ago hoping you could help him find his daughter. She and her husband had disappeared without a word three weeks ago. The police had told him that both his daughter and son-in-law had gone to start a new life in America. He didn't believe that they would leave without telling him, and if they had left they would have kept in touch," John answered. "I didn't realize you had decided to take the case. You didn't sound very…umm… enthusiastic when discussing it with Mr. Williams." John felt that description was putting it politely; Sherlock had been extremely dismissive of Mr. Williams, though not overtly rude.

"While missing persons cases are almost invariably dull, Mr. Williams’ description of his daughter’s disappearance reminded me of a case I had noted in the cold case files Lestrade allowed me to trawl though a few months ago when you threatened my experiments." Sherlock cast him a mildly irritated look at the memory. That had been a particularly bad week, John recalled. It had been several months after Sherlock’s return and Sherlock hadn't had a case in several weeks. His experiments and black moods had gotten progressively more dangerous and destructive. John had tried to reason with, cajole, order, and had finally resorted to threatening to destroy several of Sherlock's experiments to get him to find something to do and leave the flat. John had been desperate to prevent either Sherlock killing them all with his experiments or strangling Sherlock himself out of sheer frustration. D.I. Lestrade had been very sympathetic and had arranged for Sherlock to look through the cold cases.

John had become much closer friends with Greg since The Fall (and yes, that deserved the capitals). Greg had appeared at John’s crappy flat about two weeks after John had left Baker Street.  He had stopped John from slamming the door in his face with a blurted out apology for his part in Sherlock’s arrest and then with his belief in Sherlock’s innocence. Lestrade had been treated as a pariah at the Yard after Sherlock’s apparent death, and John suspected that Mycroft had been forced to step in behind the scenes to prevent him from being fired. John believed that Lestrade had been considering resignation and had been actively looking for a new job when Sherlock had finally returned.  Sherlock had arranged for Greg to arrive at the right moment to arrest Moran, the final lynch pin in Moriarty’s remaining empire, almost absentmindedly restoring Lestrade’s reputation and redeeming him, along with Sherlock, in the eyes of Lestrade’s superiors.  Although, once Moran had been arrested and carted off in a police transport, Greg had blackened Sherlock’s left eye for him, right above the cut John had put on his cheekbone half a day earlier, for putting them all through the pain of thinking he was dead.

"That particular cold case hadn't seemed worth following up on at the time but I remembered a few details.  I used Lestrade's access codes to review the case again after Mr. Williams left, and confirmed that there were indeed a few similarities.” John just sighed fondly and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's blatant disregard for Lestrade's privacy as Sherlock continued to expound, “A detailed examination of the cold case files turned up several similar missing persons cases, and at least one possibly related murder."

"What did Greg say when you brought the cases to him?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted, "Lestrade is on vacation with his kids in South Wales for at least another week and a half, and Dimmock wouldn't even consider my findings!"

"Alright, but I still don't see how that ends up with us becoming engaged."

"Ahh… that is where the case becomes interesting.” Sherlock replied, “All the missing persons were couples in their mid-thirties, married less than five months. Three other heterosexual couples like Williams' daughter and son **-** in **-** law, two male homosexual couples and one female homosexual couple. In all cases the police believed that evidence proved that the couple had emigrated from the country. In the murder, in their infinite wisdom, they determined that the husband had killed the wife and hidden the body before fleeing the country. The earliest case is more than five years old, and the cases are spread out over the greater London area. In all cases the most obvious similarity is that the couples had civil marriages, or in the cases of the homosexual couples, civil partnerships. None of them had a wedding ceremony held either before or after the civil ceremony, and all of the couples were estranged to some extent from their immediate families.”

John frowned. "The cases would certainly seem to be rather obviously tied together. Why wouldn't Dimmock look into them?"

"He believed the evidence that seemed to say the couples had emigrated, especially given that all of the couples had troubled relationships with their families," Sherlock scoffed. "As if the evidence couldn't be easily fabricated, and not one of the families had any contact once the couple disappeared. Statistically you would have predicted that at least one person in these couples would have contacted family or friends from their old life."

"I still don't see how you and I getting a civil partnership helps you figure out what's going on," said John.

"John!" Sherlock replied, obviously frustrated at his obtuseness. "Don't you see? All of the couples had civil marriages. That is not a coincidence."

"So you think someone at the registrar's office is what, kidnapping and or killing people with civil marriages?" John shook his head, "No, that doesn't make sense. People must get civil marriages all the time."

"You're correct, I checked. The couples had their civil ceremonies at several different government offices, and none of the personnel who worked at any of those offices, even those who worked at more than one of the offices, is a viable suspect. I do however think something about civil marriages and the lifestyles of the couples is triggering the kidnapper or placing them into contact with him. I intend to flush him out," Sherlock concluded happily.

"And the most efficient way to do that is to get married and put ourselves in the line of fire, huh?" John asked, slightly exasperated rubbing his hands over his face. "Why would this person even notice us among all the couples who get civil marriages?"

"Ahh… excellent question John," Sherlock said proudly, as if he were a teacher whose student had answered a question correctly. John always felt more patronized by that tone than by any of Sherlock's insults to his intelligence. Sherlock was bustling through the room at this point, digging through files, before dropping a sheet of paper in John's lap as he moved past him into the kitchen. It was a list of clubs and activities, apparently random to John's eye.

"So, this tells me what exactly?"

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, John **,** " Sherlock scolded. "That is very clearly the activities that the couples who disappeared were involved in. I compiled it from the interviews in the case files of the missing couples friends and family. We are going to start visiting many of these places as newlyweds **.** There must be a connection in theresomewhere."

Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder and stabbed at the paper **.** "Somewhere in hiding in this plethora of dull activities is a hunter. I fully intend tostalk unnoticed through these locations and find him." John's heart stuttered at the heat of Sherlock's body when he leaned over the back of the chair, pointing at the various club, continuing to elaborate. "The second and fourth couples were active members of the London Heathside, each couple participating in several road race events prior to their disappearances although training at different venues, and as nearly as I can determine, neither couple knew the other. The first couple was regularly found in several local pubs participating in pub quizzes with another couple. Two of the three homosexual couples and one of the heterosexual couples were known to go dancing regularly at nightclubs, althoughnothing risqué which would have raised alarms with the police. The third couple seems to have had no routine activities outside of work and home life. Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law were in a bowling league," Sherlock finished, shuddering at the thought of a bowling league.

John groaned in anticipated frustration and used the emotion as an excuse to force himself to stand up, moving away from Sherlock's tantalizing aroma before he gave himself away. "Sherlock, please tell me you don't mean for us to do all these activities."

"Of course, John. How will we find this man if we don't explore these people's lives?" He wasvisibly surprised at John's reluctance.

"You do realize that joining the London Heathside and making it believable will require you to run on a regular schedule, not just because you’re chasing a criminal?" John grimaced and ran a hand through his hair, other thoughts occurring to him. "And I can't imagine you enjoying a nightclub **.** Have you ever even bowled? I can't even bring myself to think about the pub quiz. It would drive you batty. You realize the questions they ask are the same as the ones on Q.I.? And that show irritates you because you think most of the information to be completely irrelevant."

Sherlock flapped a hand at John's concerns. "It's just for a short time for the case. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks to flush this person out." John snorted in disbelief at Sherlock's casual dismissal. He couldn't imagine the man being polite to quiz participants for one whole evening much less several evenings, and the man would be like catnip to women and men alike in a night club.

"I still don't understand why we actually need to get married to explore these places. Couldn't we just go undercover and pretend to be a married couple?" John asked, "Also, if you use your real name don't you think you might risk scaring this guy off, not to mention our witnesses? You’re even more famous now with the whole returning from the dead thing and the restoration of your reputation."

"No, no, in fact I think my real name might draw the man out **.** In the third couple’s case, the husband was a trainee constable for the police force. I would be a challenge for the kidnapper," said Sherlock, dismissing John's concern. "Plus it’s likely that we aregoing to have to look for this person for several weeks. It is much easier to hide our search within the bounds of our day-to-day lives and activities, rather than having to create and remember an entire cover story. You have many talents John, but I doubt that you are an accomplished enough liar to fool anyone with a fake life for weeks at a time. With this option, we have to change very little about our day-to-day lives. As for people recognizing us, I suspect we can use that to our advantage."

"And you don't think people will think it’s odd that we are suddenly getting married? We aren't even dating!" John said, his voice rising in frustration. "Not to mention, what’s your explanation for joining all of these activities? They aren’t actually part of our typical routines. You don't think we will be acting obviously out of character?"

"First, most of the Yarders have believed we were shagging since I brought you on the Pink case, as you are well aware. I know Donovon even warned you that you were risking your life by dumping me to date Sarah and your other girlfriends," Sherlock replied.

"How in the world could you have possible deduced that bit of information?" John asked in shock. That had been a very uncomfortable episode early in their friendship, of which John wasn't particularly proud. He had dressed Sally down about interfering in and assuming things about others' private lives with all the ferocity of a drill Sergeant dressing down a new recruit. "You weren't even in the building when she said that to me!"

Sherlock laughed. "I didn't actually. Lestrade told me a week or two after it happened. He was highly amused, and impressed, by your reprimand of Sally." John joined in his laughter, somewhat ruefully as Sherlock continued, "The gossip has gotten even more prominent since my return, especially since you have been having what I believe is termed a ‘dry spell’ for dating. You didn’t even mention your few dates with Mary several months ago on your blog, so I doubt anyone other than myself is even aware that they occurred ** _._** The betting pool about when we’re finally going to come out has gotten quite large. Many of your bloggers also seem to think we are together, based on the comments you receive."

John just shook his head listening to Sherlock’s reasoning. "As to your objections to our new activities, I have explanations for everything. We’re joining Heathside as part of some recommended ongoing rehabilitation for your injuries. The bowling and pub quizzes, we are testing those on the advice of your therapist **,** who suggested that our relationship would benefit from a livelier social lifestyle, and we each picked one activity that we will try for several weeks. And of course since we can't travel for a honeymoon due to a doctor’s busy work schedule, instead we’ll celebrate our marriage by going out to enjoy London's nightlife."

John snorted and rolled his eyes. "And you honestly think anyone will believe that you would be willing to follow the advice of a therapist? And don't think I haven't noticed that all the activities you will actively dislike are being blamed on me."

"It's true love, John. Of course I would do whatever is needed for my husband’s mental and physical health. How dare you suggest otherwise?" Sherlock asked wide **-** eyed, before he broke down and smirked, making John chuckle again. He was so totally screwed. He never managed to stay mad at this crazy man, much less stop himself from doing whatever he demanded. Shaking his head John wandered into the kitchen deciding that he needed a cup of tea if he was going to finish this conversation and actually consider this insane request. Who was he kidding? Of course he would do whatever the mad man requested **.**

Several minutes later, he returned with a comforting cup of earl grey and settled back into his chair with a sigh. "So if I’m following the plan, tomorrow we are going down to the registrar's office to complete our civil partnership." He frowned, a thought occurring to him. "Don't you have to file paperwork for this prior to actually going the registrar's office to exchange vows? And what are we going to do about the witnesses?"

"Oh, I filled out the paperwork with the registrar's office last week **,** " Sherlock said dismissively.

John choked and spat Earl Grey all over his jumper front. "Last week! Sherlock!" John scolded. "How long have you been working on this case?" he continued exasperatedly, shaking his head yet again. "In the future, would you kindly inform me before you finalize life altering plans involving me? Seeing as I’m your fiancé it would be only considered polite. Manners are important you know."

"Manners. Manners are boring. To finish answering your pointless questions, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson have agreed to be our witnesses."

"Please tell me you at least informed our landlady that this is for a case?" John asked without looking up, knowing that he didn't want to hear the answer. Mycroft would have deduced that this was for a case before Sherlock had even finished the sentence asking him. Mrs. Hudson on the other hand would be even worse than the yarders. She had always known about John’s dates but especially after Sherlock had returned and John had moved back to Baker Street, John could tell that she not so secretly hoped that they would enter into a relationship.

"Of course not. Mrs. Hudson is a terrible liar. Her giddy reaction when I invited her to be our witness indicates that her belief in our relationship which could only add veracity to our story."

"Fine, but you get to explain everything to Mrs. Hudson once the case is over. So after the registrar’s office, I take it we are just supposed to act like newlyweds and start going out to these places.Basically I will be acting as arm candy to cover your snooping," John summarized.

"Arm candy, John? Where do you pick up these dreadful phrases? They must come from those horrible American dramas in which you indulge," Sherlock scoffed. "Although I deplore your slander of the English language, your meaning is essentially correct. And of course given the history of this kidnapper, your other, less advertised skills may come in handy." John nodded gravely at Sherlock's statement.

"Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law are dead aren't they?" John finally asked the consulting detective after spending a long moment considering the case.

Sherlock hesitated for a while before answering, "I believe so. They have been missing for close to three weeks **.** It is statistically unlikely that either one is still alive." Sherlock would never be sympathetic to most people's emotions and responses to situations, but ever since John's kidnapping by Moriarty to The Pool, Sherlock had been at least more cautious of his friend’s feelings about the victims involved in their cases. In fact ever since Sherlock's Return, his occasional use of John as away to judge his behavior against conventional norms had become considerably more common. He didn't always follow John's subtle **,** and sometimes not so subtle **,** hints about acceptable behavior, but John was honored that the genius considered his opinion worth checking.

John nodded and deciding that he had hadenough for the evening, started heading for his room. "Alright, I’ll see you in the morning. Is seven early enough to be getting up **,** or do I need to get up earlier to make our appointment?"

"Seven should be fine. Mycroft will be here at eight, to drive us and Mrs. Hudson to the registrar's office. I had your suitcleaned and pressed. It's hanging in your closet."

"Night, Sherlock."

"Hmm… Night, John," Sherlock replied **,** clearly already falling back into his thoughts and plans to hunt this serial kidnapper.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

An hour later, John was lying in his bed in the dark staring at the ceiling, still trying to decide how to deal with this new twist in his life. After more than a year of thinking, or more accurately brooding, about it John wasn't sure if he had fallen for his flatmate shortly after meeting him without realizing it, or if he had fallen for him slowly. He wasn't even sure if it mattered. He certainly hadn't yet realized it while dating Sarah, Jeanette, and the others. John sometimes wondered if Sarah had questioned his feelings for Sherlock before John had even begun to suspect them himself. He knew his other girlfriends had, it wasn't like it was normal for a man to run out of a date to chase their flatmate across the city, or to sleep on the couch of the girl you are trying to date after clearly having what Mrs. Hudson referred to as a "domestic". Looking back, it was pretty obvious that he headed over to his girlfriends’ homes more often because of a fight with his dramatic flatmate than seeking their company. That behavior still made him feel slightly guilty in retrospect.

Then had come The Woman, Irene Adler. John still couldn't believe how thick he had been about his response to her. He had counted her text messages to Sherlock and demanded to know if Sherlock had replied to her. John had been barely aware that he was asking right in front of his current girlfriend. The staggering pain and alarm he had felt when he realized that Irene was flirting with his friend should have told him. He still remembered the unexpected shock that had run through him when she had announced that they were a couple. He hadn't admitted it until later, but the shock and pain had been because Irene was wrong, they weren't a couple. Although he was in Sherlock's words, his only friend, Sherlock didn't love him the way John had slowly come to realize that he loved Sherlock.

John had finally admitted it to himself shortly before Moriarty’s disastrous trial, before Sherlock had ‘died’. At the time John had believed he was lucky that Sherlock had been distracted by the trial while he pondered his feelings and his behavior. He suspected it really should have frightened him how quickly he accepted the fact that he had completely fallen for his male sociopathic genius flatmate. John had been sure at the time that he had been well and truly buggered and honestly was amazed at just how long it had taken him to notice his feelings for Sherlock. In his defense, he had never been attracted to another man before, so the thought that he found Sherlock attractive, much less had fallen in love, had never occurred to him. He hadn't been lying to Sherlock at Angelo's that first night. He really had just been trying to find out more about his new flatmate. John hadn’t had time before Sherlock’s apparent suicide to really worry if Sherlock would notice, and evidently he had done a half way decent job of not changing his behavior since Sherlock’s return. If he had noticed, the detective hadn't said anything or changed his behavior toward John. 

John had briefly considered leaving several times over the last eight months since Sherlock’s return. It was never more than a momentary thought because deep in his soul, he knew that doing so would destroy him. And god help him if Sherlock ever found out about that particular sentiment. He was sure his intellect would be treated to a sarcastic dressing down similar to what Anderson's received at every crime scene they worked with the hapless forensic scientist. Even John considered the thought to be pathetically maudlin, an emotion worthy of a teenager, not a 38-year-old former army doctor. However, John knew he had come back from the war broken and Sherlock had fixed him. Unfortunately he now knew that without him he would break again and shatter into a million pieces, just like John had when Sherlock ‘died’. And he really wasn't sure he could survive that again. Oh John had continued to walk, talk, go to work, see patients, eat and drink while Sherlock was ‘dead’ but he hadn’t been alive. He had been a robot barely going through the motions and if he lost Sherlock, he would be once again.

When Sherlock had returned, it had been like the spring after an ice age. The world became real again, and John stopped going through the motions and started living. John had figured out several weeks after Sherlock had jumped that Moriarty must have held the destruction of something frighteningly important over Sherlock to force him to jump even after Moriarty had killed himself.  Perhaps the murder of Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft, or even a large bomb in central London; the provocative madman had been inordinately fond of blowing things up. John had the pleasure of surprising Sherlock on his return when John had asked, while he was cleaning the cut he had put on Sherlock’s face with his fist, if the threat that had forced Sherlock to fake his death had been dealt with.  Sherlock had stared at him open mouthed for a moment before responding that the capture of one Sebastian Moran would finally eliminate the threat and finish off the last of Moriarty’s empire. John hadn’t realized until almost a day later that they had never gotten around to discussing the specific threat Moriarty had used to force Sherlock’s hand due to time constraints they had been under, and for some reason John had never brought it back up.

Sherlock had returned to both London and John after seven months to try and close a trap on Sebastian Moran. Moran, Sherlock had explained, was a former MI-6 black operative, who had turned traitor and joined Moriarty as one of his top lieutenants, and John had willingly allowed himself to be dragged immediately in to help in his capture. It had turned out that in addition to being an excellent shot, Moran had also been trained as a computer hacker by MI-6, originally used to infiltrate cyberterrorists, but later put to use by Moriarty in an untold number of ways including creating Richard Brooke. Sherlock had managed to build a lure for Moran that the consulting detective had correctly predicted he couldn't resist. His capture alive and the proof of Moriarty's guilt that Sherlock and Mycroft had obtained together had been enough not only to clear Sherlock's name, but also to make him more famous than ever.

John had stayed in his flat for a week after Sherlock's return before caving to Sherlock's offer to be flatmates again. Ostensibly John claimed he moved back in because he hated the flat he had been staying in, which was true. The real reason however was that he couldn't stand being that far away from his friend, not being able to confirm that he wasn't imagining it, that Sherlock really was alive. Even now, eight months later, John still occasionally woke in the middle of the night and had to get up and go downstairs to check that Sherlock was here in Baker Street and not just a figment of John's imagination. Sherlock had never commented on John's sudden late night appearances in the living room, which had happened nightly during the first month, or even peeking into Sherlock's room if by some miracle the consulting detective happened to be sleeping, but John didn’t delude himself that Sherlock was unaware of the reason. For the first several weeks, Sherlock had just distracted John from his fears by answering all his questions about his undercover work eliminating Moriarty’s empire. If most of the information hadn’t been classified State Secrets, something Mycroft made very sure John was aware of, John felt that Sherlock’s life undercover could have been written up and sold as a true crime best seller.

John had not given up his locum work at Sarah's surgery after Sherlock's Return. Sarah had appeared a month after Sherlock's 'death' when John had just been starting to get desperate for work, no one would hire the partner of such a famous fake, and offered John his job back. She had flat out called Sherlock an arrogant arse, but said that anyone who had actually met him should have no trouble believing that he was real. The job had saved him, given him a reason for getting up, and had allowed him to convince his therapist that he was healing a little, although John had known he would never completely recover. Now the job gave him a place to be away from his flatmate, something he occasionally desperately needed no matter how much he loved the mad genius, and provided him a safety net if something went wrong, and John had to leave Baker Street again.

A month after Sherlock’s return John had tried dating Mary after Sherlock had helped her.  John had started asking her out both to hide his feelings and because she was genuinely wonderful, and he thought he might be able to fall for her given enough time, forcing himself to get over Sherlock. Mary had come to Sherlock when she started receiving odd gifts of pearls that she believed had something to do with her father who had disappeared after the First Gulf War. Sherlock had eventually uncovered a convoluted plot involving a stolen Kuwaiti fortune, four convicted soldiers and two prison guards.

Mary had been a delightful woman, a teacher, and John had broken it off after three dates when he realized that he couldn’t use her as a cover for his feelings. She was kind, intelligent and thoughtful, she deserved someone who could put her first in their heart and perhaps if he had never met Sherlock, he could have seen himself spending his life with her. John knew he would eventually need to try again, but he hadn't even mentioned the dates in his blog when he wrote up the case. He couldn't decide if he was glad about that now, or irritated with himself for not mentioning it. If he had indicated in his blog that he had gone on a few dates with Mary, perhaps the yarders wouldn't assume quite so easily that he and Sherlock were a couple, and Sherlock would have considered alternative approaches to this case.

John wasn't sure if this new case offered him a small taste of heaven or was going to condemn him to a lifetime of loneliness. He was worried that he would accidentally do something that would tip Sherlock off that his flatmate was madly, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with him. John also didn’t know if he was he supposed to change his public behavior toward Sherlock during this case to make their marriage more believable? Were they going to need to touch more, either something simple like a hand on the back, or heaven help him, Sherlock kissing him as part of the cover story? He wasn't sure what exactly would happen if Sherlock figured it out, but he was sure that it would end up more than a little badly for himself. He figured Sherlock would give him a variation of the ‘flattered by your interest’ speech again, perhaps treating him like he had Molly. Although Sherlock had been treating Molly much better since his return, partially John thought because of her help with faking Sherlock’s suicide, and partially because Molly appeared to have gotten over her crush and now mostly treated Sherlock like a respected colleague or perhaps an honored mentor.

Alternatively, John worried that Sherlock would laugh uncontrollably before ripping John's intelligence to shreds when he discovered John’s feelings. In his worst nightmares, Sherlock was embarrassed and uncomfortable, not knowing how to react to his only friend’s emotions. No matter how Sherlock reacted, John was sure that his feelings being uncovered would result in the end their friendship and John would have to move out, and deal with the loss of Sherlock again.  The only improvement this time would be that at least John would know Sherlock was alive and hopefully thriving in some part of the world.

John knew, and enjoyed, that he was closer to Sherlock than anyone except perhaps Mummy and, for all their fighting, Mycroft, and that Sherlock still considered him his one true friend. He also knew that Sherlock just didn't have those feelings or desires about others. In fact Mycroft had seemed to imply in the conversation at the palace that Sherlock was a virgin. The genius just didn't view the world as everyone else did, and John really did understand. He had been watching Sherlock closely since they had met, even before he realized how buggered he was, and the closest Sherlock had come to displaying attraction to someone had been in his response to Irene Adler.

That thought had driven him almost insane with jealousy, even after Irene had died. When John had thought about it later after Sherlock's 'death' he wasn't surprised that Irene had fascinated Sherlock; the woman had been almost as intelligent as Sherlock, and could think quickly on her feet. John could never decide if Sherlock's fascination had included physical, not to mention romantic, attraction. He suspected Sherlock might actually be asexual, and despite Irene's considering it a compliment that Sherlock had noticed her measurements, John didn't really find that to be proof. Considering how much of the world Sherlock noticed consciously and unconsciously, John suspected Sherlock might know the measurements of almost everyone he met. John did hope that in the future if Sherlock met another woman or man who could keep up with the genius and attract his attention, that the person would actually be worthy of it, and not just someone out to get everything they could for themselves. 

Whether or not Sherlock was capable of or interested in falling in love, John knew that Sherlock was far from emotionless. He knew that Sherlock valued his friendship greatly and loved Mrs. Hudson as one would a grandmother, something he had known long before Sherlock had half killed the CIA agent who had dared to hurt her. John forced himself to be satisfied with friendship, because he never wanted to hurt or make his friend uncomfortable. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John was a romantic moron who tried reaching for the moon. And if Sherlock did ever meet another person worthy of his attention, John would soldier on and do everything in his power to make sure that the genius was as happy, even if John's damaged heart would finally shatter.

After tossing and turning for a while longer, John came to a decision. He was a soldier and it was time to stop brooding and just keep going forward. He would continue to treat Sherlock the same way he normally did. Apparently that was enough to convince the unobservant that they were a couple, so why risk anything by changing his behavior or worrying? If Sherlock decided they needed more obvious displays of affection in public, he would try following Sherlock's lead on how much was required in any situation. And he would store up for the future any and every touch and intimate moment that came about because of this case, even if the emotions were faked. With his plan decided on, John rolled over and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: This is a repost of a story I have been working on for sometime over on my FanFiction and LiveJournal accounts. I hope the readers here enjoy reading it as much as I have been writing it. I have 14 chapters completed and 3-4 more to write. I intend to post a chapter up every day or two until I catch up with my other accounts.
> 
> I want to thank my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter who is already making this a better story. Without her I would have given up long ago. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> I would love constructive criticism, but no flames for the slash please. So what do you think more or STOP please you’re burning my eyes out with this terrible story.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku.


	2. With This Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter
> 
> 3/17/2013 Repost Spelling and Grammar Corrections

Chapter 2 With This Ring

John’s hand shot out, slapping randomly at his bedside table, trying to dismiss the obnoxious noise emanating from his alarm clock. John groaned into his pillow when his searching hand accidentally knocked it onto the floor. Thoroughly frustrated he hauled himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed before reaching down to hit the off switch and end the grating sound. John sat there rubbing his hands over his face in the blessed silence that followed, wondering why he was getting up so blasted early when he didn’t have to be at the surgery until one that afternoon. When he finally remembered, John groaned again and seriously considered locking the bedroom door and crawling back under the covers.

John remained perched on the edge of his bed, hazily contemplating the day ahead of him. Was he really screwed up enough that he was going to marry his best mate, who he just happened to be desperately in love with, just so said mate could hunt a serial kidnapper? A kidnapper who was likely to be a serial murderer?

After considering this for a moment, John shook his head sheepishly, got up and headed out towards the bathroom to get ready for the day. He had decided last night to help Sherlock with the case, he wasn’t going to change his mind now. Besides, John ruefully thought, even if he had locked the door, Sherlock could probably pick it in under a minute. It would certainly take him less than that to talk John into doing precisely what the consultant wanted. Lord, he thought, his therapist would have a field day with this if he were still seeing her.

Fifteen minutes later John was scrubbed and clean shaven for his civil partnership ceremony. After contemplating his reflection, which utterly failed to show his true level of insanity, John began pulling his freshly pressed suit out of the dry cleaning bag, his final step before he needed to go downstairs and deal with his mad genius flatmate.

“Sherlock!” John roared, stomping down the stairs and into the sitting room, hauling the dry cleaning bag with him. “Where is my suit and what makes you think I’m going to wear this…this…?” John’s descriptors failed him and he resorted to waving his free hand at the obviously hand tailored, and admittedly beautifully cut charcoal grey suit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed in disgust, not moving from where he was sipping a cup of tea in the kitchen doorway. “Mycroft.”

John’s rant was thrown off track by the unexpected response, until he made the connection. “You mean to tell me that your brother replaced my suit? Why?”

“I believe Mycroft felt that your, shall we say, classic suit was not up to his standards.” Sherlock waved a hand, indicating another hand tailored black suit hanging from a clothes hook on the sitting room door. “Of course he has also provided me with a new suit. I have inspected mine and removed two tracking devices. If you hand yours over for a moment, I’ll inspect it and remove the ones I’m sure he had his minions plant.”

“Wait, he had tracking devices placed in the suits?” John shook his head, “Never mind, idiotic question, of course he did. The better question is what does Mycroft want for providing us with these ridiculous things? This suit must be worth more than my monthly salary.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, John,” Sherlock answered, reaching out to take the dry cleaning bag from him. “I suspect Mycroft will attempt to ask for legwork at a later date in return for the suits.  Additionally I believe he is getting a great deal of enjoyment out of this situation and the suits are some obscure jest on his part.”

John sighed as he rubbed his face, sitting down in his chair. “Of course Mycroft finds this amusing.” John started to chuckle softly as he considered the ridiculous situation he was voluntarily entering. “Actually, it’s more surprising that you are willing to owe your brother a favor. You usually prefer to avoid the cases your brother requests you to solve.”

Sherlock grinned cheekily as he started inspecting John’s suit. “Just because Mycroft expects a favor does not mean that I am required to provide one.”

John returned his grin, continuing to laugh a little. “Are you eating today? Big day you know.  Marriage and a serial murderer, might need a few calories to keep the transport running,” he asked as he got up, moving into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa and some toast, hoping to get Sherlock to consume a little something. He wouldn’t force the issue today as he occasionally had done in the past when the detective had gone long enough to make John worry about hypoglycemia and dehydration. Amazingly since John now knew that the detective was working, Sherlock had eaten a half way decent meal of take away with him last night, before apparently remembering several hours later that John would need to know that he had somewhere to be in the morning.

“Just another cup of tea.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you remembered to tell me about our engagement last night, instead of just hauling me out of bed this morning and down to the registrar’s office without an explanation,” John called from the kitchen as he put the kettle on and started the toast.

“Don’t be dim, John. Of course I needed to inform you last night. All the ridiculous objections you would have made would only have caused any observers to question our true intentions. It might have blown our entire cover story,” Sherlock replied from his position hunched over John’s suit in the living room. “Ah ha! Mycroft must be hiring unimaginative minions again.  The trackers in both suits were placed in identical locations, and the dimwits chose positions where removal wouldn’t affect the appearance of the suit. Sloppy, very sloppy.”

“Mycroft probably knew that you would inspect the suits and didn’t want them destroyed when you inevitably found the trackers. Would have been a waste of good material,” John replied, rummaging in the fridge, hoping for some unaltered jam for his toast. Luck must have been with him today as he discovered some hiding behind a severed foot.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied. “Or it’s possible that the trackers I found are decoys to hide the real ones. We should destroy the suits when we return from the ceremony as a safety precaution.”

“You keep your hands off my suit, Sherlock. That’s a gift from my future brother-in-law, and I prefer to stay on my in-law’s good side,” John teased. “Plus it would be a shame to destroy it since I can’t afford to replace it. Besides, you never know when having a nice suit might come in handy for undercover work,” he finished reasonably, hoping that this would prevent Sherlock from using the beautifully tailored material Mycroft had provided in some kind of experiment.

John’s relationship with Mycroft had been strained, to put it mildly, since John had discovered that Mycroft had fed Moriarty all the information the madman had needed to destroy his best friend. Mycroft had apologized to John both before and after Sherlock’s return. He knew Mycroft still felt guilty for his actions which had left Sherlock so vulnerable that he had been forced to fake his own death. But John’s grief after The Fall had prevented John from forgiving him.

John had finally been able to start coming to terms with Mycroft after the man had apologized for his part in covering up Sherlock’s survival. John suspected that he would always be more suspicious of Mycroft than he had been previously, but John was too happy after Sherlock’s return to not try to forgive the man, even if he couldn’t forget. Besides, the suit was perfect, and John never wanted something that nice to be destroyed just because he was irritated with Sherlock’s brother.

Sherlock considered John’s words for a moment, before reaching over and snagging some of his toast. 

“Hey!”

“Turns out my fiancé is correct, and I need to provide some fuel for my transport if I’m going to survive both Mycroft’s smugness and this ceremony.”

John laughed as he finished his toast and started moving upstairs with the rest of his tea and the now theoretically tracker-free suit.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Slightly less than a half hour later, Sherlock and John were settled in their respective chairs. John was enjoying the morning newspaper while Sherlock shuffled through case notes when Mycroft joined them, his ubiquitous umbrella in hand.

“Ah, John. I was so glad to hear from Sherlock about your happy announcement,” Mycroft said in his most urbane manner. John just snorted and rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s allusion to their first meeting.

“Sherlock’s right, you’re enjoying this more than necessary,” John replied.

“Why, John, of course I’m happy that my adored brother is finally settling down with such an excellent partner. A retired veteran and a doctor with a busy practice, not to mention a man who has proven his loyalty to my brother many times over? What more could I wish for Sherlock?” Mycroft easily countered, settling himself on the couch.

John just raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s response, deciding that it was too early in the day to get into a verbal sparring match with one of the Holmes brothers, which John had little hope of winning anyway. 

“Thanks for the suit, Mycroft,” John said, changing the subject. “Although I would appreciate being asked in the future before you exchange my things. I don’t suppose the old one is available to be returned to me? This one is a little fancy for my day-to-day needs, although it might come in handy in the future if we have a stakeout in the palace,” John asked, waving a hand at the tailored suit he was wearing, remembering white sheets and laughter about queens.

Mycroft nodded, but John noted that it was more an acknowledgement of the statement than necessarily an agreement to abide by the request. John was not as observant as his flatmate but time and exposure had allowed him to get better at reading between the lines of at least some of the Holmes brothers’ words and actions. Past history also helped a lot. A few months after Sherlock’s return, Mycroft had started to kidnap John again every few weeks or so for talks and still texted John when he was trying to get Sherlock to take a case, although John was much more vocal now of his disapproval of Mycroft’s occasionally high handed methods. So John didn’t have any real expectation that Mycroft would respect this boundary any more than his brother, but he thought a token objection was necessary.

“I do apologize, John, but I’m afraid that your…umm… suit has been donated to charity,” Mycroft answered, his pause indicating that he didn’t approve of John’s taste in clothes, before turning to his brother and asking, “As I’m acting as your witness-cum-best man in this…ceremony, do you wish to give me the rings now or once we reach the registrar’s office?”

“You got us rings?” John asked, slightly startled.

The look Sherlock threw John strongly suggested that he thought John was being excessively dim this morning. “Of course we will be wearing rings. How else do you expect the dull people at these events to identify us as married? The rings will also provide you with the opportunity to bring the civil ceremony up in conversation without it looking unnatural.”

“Ahh... another way to flush out the kidnapper, I see,” John commented, “I don’t suppose I could see them?”

“Of course, the jeweler’s box is in the skull’s oral cavity. Give them to Mycroft when you are done,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand at the skull on the fireplace mantle without looking up from the records he was sorting.

John moved up to the skull and sure enough, there was a black jeweler’s box. “Sorry Gladstone,” John said, picking up the skull to remove the box. After placing the skull back on the mantle carefully, he opened the box and almost dropped it. Inside were two matching rings. The rings were wide and silver in color, with a slightly raised inlay of another silver colored metal. If John had ever considered purchasing wedding rings, these would have been exactly what he would have chosen. Simple, yet distinctive. He could immediately imagine one on Sherlock’s hand, and it bothered him that they would be wearing something that should have so much meaning for nothing more than a case, even if it would help Sherlock catch a killer.

“Sherlock, these must have cost a fortune. Where is the money coming from to pay for these things?” John queried as he ran a finger across the inlay of one of the rings, before adding almost against his will, “what are the metals?”

“Tungsten and platinum. And you needn’t worry about the rent money, a jeweler loaned them to me. He owed me for helping to break up a gang’s protection racket and getting them arrested before they destroyed his business,” Sherlock answered.

“I’m glad we aren’t going to have to starve to pay for the necessary props for this case,” John quickly replied, glad his back was still toward the Holmes brothers as he realized that he wouldn’t even get to keep the rings as a remembrance after this was over. John forced that thought down before he turned to walk over to pass the box off to Mycroft who was starting to rise from the couch.

“I believe we should collect Mrs. Hudson now if we plan on making your 9 o’clock appointment brother,” Mycroft stated after giving John a long look as he handed over the jeweler’s box. Sherlock nodded from his chair before getting up and bustling into his long coat and absentmindedly hustling John into his, and the three of them started making their way down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

The ride to the registrar’s office could have been officially registered with the Geneva Convention as torture. Mycroft continued to look at the pair of them smugly, while Mrs. Hudson bubbled uncontrollably. She was obviously thrilled by the marriage and John felt extremely guilty. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t happy just because she finally had married ones of her own; she was happy for Sherlock. In her own way Mrs. Hudson was a grandmother to Sherlock, and she was so happy he had found someone who could stay with him that she was almost sobbing with joy. When she had opened the door to her rooms, she had practically drowned the much taller Sherlock in a hug, and kissed John’s cheeks all the while muttering happily about true love and commitment. John could privately agree that he needed to be committed to a sanitarium for participating in this craziness.

It was somewhat disconcerting that several of Mrs. Hudson’s anecdotes about how to keep a marriage strong were about her late husband, who apparently had been a great romantic, believing deeply in the sanctity of marriage. John wondered again exactly what Mr. Hudson had done and how Sherlock had helped Mrs. Hudson ensure the conviction. Neither had been very forthcoming on the topic and John hadn’t liked to pry in something that was obviously so private, to Mrs. Hudson at least.

John started wondering just how Mrs. Hudson was going to react after the case was over and he had to explain that the marriage wasn’t real, since John knew there was no way Sherlock would explain - too many messy emotions. She was bound to be hurt that they had deceived her and upset that they hadn’t trusted her to help keep their secret. John wasn’t yet sure how he was going to face her and privately feared that she might not forgive him for this deception. Her joy that Sherlock was alive had allowed her to forgive Sherlock for his ruse, but John thought this might be worse. They were now deceiving her for the second time in a year, making it seem like they didn’t trust her.

During their ride to the register’s office, John became slightly irritated and embarrassed by Mrs. Hudson’s commentary. She kept talking about how Sherlock had been lucky to get John and fussing over how John was such a good man, a doctor, a soldier, and so reliable. Mycroft didn’t help, encouraging her at every opportunity, which John figured was an odd attempt to needle Sherlock. It finally occurred to John that he could use the situation to his advantage and admit to a few of the feelings he kept tightly controlled, while pointing out some realities to Mrs. Hudson.

“Have you ever considered that I might be the one who is lucky to have Sherlock agree to marry me, Mrs. Hudson? Doctors are a dime a dozen and veterans even more so, but there is only one Consulting Detective. It’s quite amazing to me that he chooses to have such a dull person in his life. Well, at least I feel that way on the days I don’t feel like knocking some sense into his idiotic head for trying to blow up the flat, or for forgetting to put body parts on the experiment shelf instead of the food shelf in the fridge,” John said, using a light teasing tone to cover how honored he felt that Sherlock enjoyed his company and his friendship.

Sherlock actually looked up at John’s statement and frowned. “My dear John, it pains me to disagree with my intended, but you are never dull.” Sherlock smiled mischievously at John before taking his hand in a light grip, his thumb brushing lightly across John’s knuckles and adding teasingly, “Obtuse and dimwitted occasionally, but never dull.”

John laughed both amused and reassured at the typically backhanded compliment that was such a standard Sherlockian response, even as he covertly enjoyed the light touch. Mrs. Hudson smiled and muttered something about romantic gestures. Out of the corner of his eye John saw Mycroft smile softly and wondered what that meant. It wasn’t the smirk he had been wearing all morning.  John was distracted from worrying about this possibly concerning change by their arrival at the registrar’s office.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

“Ahhh…, Dr. Watson, I am so glad to meet you in person,” Mr. Price, the registrar, said as he reached out to shake John’s hand. “Mr. Holmes has told me so much about you, and of course after hearing how you met and some of your adventures, I had to check out your blog. And then of course I remembered reading about the two of you in the papers. It is always nice to see such obviously loving couples choosing to make the legal commitments they can while we wait for the marriage laws to change.”

John thought it was a little odd that Sherlock had picked a registrar who was so obviously gay himself and thrilled to be marrying them. He didn’t see how this would help them find the kidnapper, but after a moment shrugged the thought aside. Sherlock always had reasons for how he did things on a case and eventually he would let John in on them.

“We do have a little paperwork to complete before the ceremony. Your fiancé explained that you had a medical emergency when he filled out the paperwork last week, but I still need to get a few signatures from you,” the civil servant continued.

John nodded and Mr. Price proceeded to drown him in confusing legalese about how the civil partnership would affect both parties including wills and inheritance laws, taxes, even rights pertaining to any children either man had, and finally a brief review of what would be involved if they ever dissolved their civil partnership. Most of the information John let flow right over his head after a few confusing moments, as he figured it wouldn’t apply to either him or Sherlock.  He did try to pay more attention to the dissolution requirements because he would likely need to understand them once the case was resolved. After a minute he gave up since the legalese was more confusing than his brain could handle today. Anyway he assumed Mycroft would be able to help Sherlock push that paperwork through when the time came. He frowned to himself a little as he thought of this. He really should have asked Sherlock before they got this far, but he couldn’t ask now in front of Mrs. Hudson and the registrar, it would give the whole game away.

The registrar noticed John frowning as he talked. “Dr. Watson, I realize that no one wants to think of this on their wedding day and I apologize if it is bothering you, but I’m required to make sure you are aware of all the legal ramifications,” the flustered man apologized.

“No, no I understand you are just doing your job Mr. Price. I was just trying to understand everything. Extensive training in understanding the law is unfortunately not a standard part of a medical or military education,” John replied, trying to reassure the man.

“Oh my, I’m sure you don’t need to worry about it, John dear. I cannot imagine you or Sherlock ever separating,” Mrs. Hudson jumped in from where she was sitting next to an abnormally patient Mycroft.

“Yes well, this is all very interesting but if you are done explaining, can John sign the paperwork so we can get on with the ceremony?” Sherlock ask abrasively from where he sat in his chair next to John, his patience obviously wearing thin.

John elbowed him covertly for his rudeness as he leaned forward to sign the paperwork in the places the registrar indicated, and finally he was done and it was time for the ceremony.

John stood with Sherlock before the registrar with Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft flanking them as the man led them through the ceremony. The ceremony was pretty basic with the registrar asking if there were any impediments to the partnership. And then it was time for the vows and the exchanging of the rings.

“I, Sherlock Holmes, take you John Watson to be my civil partner under law. I make this pledge freely, with honesty and sincerity and with a commitment that will grow deeper and stronger as the years pass,” Sherlock recited after the registrar, smiling slightly at John, making him even more impressed at the man’s acting abilities. If John hadn’t known better, even he would have believed that Sherlock was speaking from the heart he claimed not to have. “I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today,” Sherlock finished as he slipped the ring onto John’s left hand, and then it was John’s turn.

“I, John Watson, take you Sherlock Holmes to be my civil partner under law. I make this pledge freely, with honesty and sincerity and with a commitment that will grow deeper and stronger as the years pass. I give you this ring as a token of my love and a sign of the promises I make to you today,” John said, his voice surprisingly firm, sliding the ring onto Sherlock’s finger. His eyes never leaving Sherlock’s as he said the words out loud which he knew he could never openly say to the other man. So he took this opportunity for all it was worth, committing every second to his memory and praying that he hadn’t already revealed his heart to Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson was snapping pictures at an insane rate, unwilling to put down the camera as the registrar invited the four of them to sign the contract. And then the registrar finished with, “Gentleman and Lady, Sherlock and John have now signed their Civil Partnership contract. It gives me great pleasure to declare that they are now civil partners, legally joined. I invite them to kiss their husband and I invite you to join me in offering your congratulations to them both.”

John was startled a little by these words. He must have been an idiot to have completely forgotten, or perhaps unconsciously ignored, this part of the ceremony. Another thing he should have discussed with Sherlock so they could have come up with an appropriate way out of it. Sherlock just gave a mischievous smile, obviously reading the concern in John’s body language, as he raised John’s left hand and pressed a gentle lingering kiss to the ring.

John distantly heard Mrs. Hudson practically coo at the gesture and snap another picture as John’s eyes widened, and a smile he couldn’t control lifted the corner of his lips. The odd moment was broken an instant later as Mrs. Hudson surged forward to hug them both, and pepper their cheeks with kisses as the registrar shook their hands and congratulated them.

Mycroft even came up to capture John’s hand, “Welcome to the family, John,” he said, giving him a penetrating look before turning and saying even more astoundingly to Sherlock, “congratulations, brother. Now may I suggest that we go out for a celebratory breakfast before John has to go to the surgery?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded as she took the arm that Mycroft offered, walking with him from the room, muttering about how sad it was that John’s busy schedule was preventing them from enjoying a proper honeymoon. John stood there for a moment trying his best not to burst into hysterical giggles at the whole situation and Mrs. Hudson’s enthusiasm, before Sherlock cocked an elbow at him, smiled and asked, “Shall we join them?”

John lost it completely, laughing loudly as he took Sherlock’s arm and exited the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all the great people who reviewed, kudo, subscribed, and bookmarked this story. I love hearing all your thoughts and comments. It’s nice to know people think I am on the right track with this story.
> 
> Once again I want to thank my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter who is already making this a better story. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> I love constructive criticism, but no flames for the slash please. I love everything from grammar and spelling corrections, to your thoughts about whether or not John and Sherlock are in character.  
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku.


	3. A Belated Reading of the Banns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter
> 
> 3/17/2013 Repost Spelling and Grammar Corrections

Chapter 3 A Belated Reading of the Banns (Or for the Americans in the crowd – Wedding Announcements)

John’s laughter lasted for the several minutes it took them to arrive back at the car. He just couldn’t help it; he honestly loved his insane life with Sherlock. Here he was walking arm in arm with his mad best friend, with Sherlock smiling at John’s laughter, in broad view of the British public where everyone could see them and know they were married. It didn’t matter to John if this marriage wasn’t a love match, if it was just a way for Sherlock to catch a killer; in this moment he was just enjoying life with Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson proceeded to fluster him on the car ride to breakfast by asking if they still wanted both the bedrooms. John blushed and stammered, but Sherlock jumped in, “We will be keeping both rooms, Mrs. Hudson. John is allowing me to turn my room into a laboratory and office on the condition that I install a futon to act as a spare bed. Our work schedules are so variable that it’s very likely both of us will occasionally need to use it to prevent us from waking up the other. Don’t you agree, John?” Sherlock inquired, a mischievous look in his eyes that John was sure Mrs. Hudson was completely misinterpreting, especially when Sherlock took John’s left hand and absentmindedly played with John’s ring.

John nodded his agreement absently, distracted by the hand on his, before his sense of humor kicked in and he teased back, “Sherlock, I can’t imagine ever minding you waking me, but on those rare occasions when you finally deign to sleep, you should get as much as possible. Besides, a spare bed could be helpful if anyone is ever insane enough to be our house guest.” Sherlock grinned cheekily in reply.

Fortunately for John’s peace of mind, the wedding breakfast with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson ended up being mercifully short. Mycroft had taken them to a ridiculously fancy restaurant where Mrs. Hudson continuing to snap photos and rambled on about how romantic the ceremony had been. Sherlock had sniped at his brother about his diet, and Mycroft continued to smile smugly at John and Sherlock, the latter making John slightly nervous and leaving him wondering what the man knew about John’s private thoughts. Happily for John’s sanity, Anthea, who introduced herself to a bemused Mrs. Hudson as Juno, had arrived a short while after they finished eating (well everyone except Sherlock of course) to break up the celebration meal by indicating that Mycroft was needed back at the office.

The three of them were dropped off at Baker Street where John managed to escape Mrs. Hudson quickly by the simple expedient of needing to get to the surgery. He bolted out of the flat, for once running ahead of schedule, after a brief but intense argument with Sherlock about the necessity of immediately announcing their marriage on his blog. Mrs. Hudson was muttering in the background about domestics while he fled to what he thought would be the relative safety of work.

If John had thought Mrs. Hudson had been bad, the women at the surgery were worse. Sherlock might bemoan the average person’s observational skills, but he had evidently never noticed a woman’s ability to spot wedding rings. In less than ten minutes John was cornered in the break room by two of the receptionists and Sarah grilling him about the ring.

“John! Why didn’t you tell us you were getting married?” Sarah asked, not even giving him a moment to answer before running on with, “you didn’t even tell me you were dating and I didn’t see anything on your blog. Who is the wonderful woman?”

“Umm…” John hesitated before admitting, “Well, it’s Sherlock.”  If his brief argument with Sherlock about the blog earlier had been any indication of how widespread Sherlock was going to spread this information, not to mention the apparently noticeable ring, it was better that John tell Sarah and his co-workers now.

“Sherlock!!!! John why didn’t you tell me you two were finally dating? Were you afraid I would be offended or angry or …?” Sarah asked, trailing off, obviously hurt.

“No! No, Sarah, I didn’t avoid telling you because I thought you would disapprove,” John tried to reassure her. John had realized on the way to the surgery that he needed to have some answer ready for the questions his friends were going to ask. He wasn’t even going to contemplate the mess involved with explaining things to Harry. “I was…I was surprised by my feelings for Sherlock and it took a while to adjust and then we wanted the civil partnership ceremony to be private. You know how Sherlock is; can you imagine him handling a large amount of people at the ceremony?”

John blushed slightly out of nervous embarrassment while he continued explaining, “We’re still arguing about how we want to handle the announcement to everyone else. Honestly Harry doesn’t even know yet.” John was actually slightly proud and ashamed of himself simultaneously as his answer had the benefit of being entirely the truth while still obscuring reality.

Eventually Sarah forgave him for not telling her, and then spent several minutes pumping him for information on the ceremony and how the flatmates had started dating. John finally managed to escape Sarah and the other women; the original three women having been quickly joined by what seemed to be every other female member of the surgery staff, by running off to hide in his exam room to see patients. Thinking about Sarah’s words later in the afternoon, John realized he had his answer to what Sarah knew about his feelings towards Sherlock. That ‘finally dating’ line obviously meant that Sarah had determined John’s feelings at some point in the past, if not from the time John and Sarah had dated.

When John finally arrived home after a dull caseload of vaccinations, cold patients, and a hypochondriac who had made him late, he collapsed on the couch in mental exhaustion. Sarah and his co-workers had all been so happy for him, he didn’t know what he was going to do when he had to explain to them it was for a case. He probably should have argued with Sherlock harder to keep it more of a secret, but in their brief argument that morning Sherlock convinced him that they needed to have no holes in their story if this kidnapper noticed them. If the kidnapper thought that Sherlock was hunting him instead of the other way around, the man might go underground or move and they might not catch him. John had caved rather quickly in the face of Sherlock’s logic. He was too much a doctor and soldier to risk innocent lives just to save himself a little stress.

John was sitting on Sherlock’s couch attempting to let go of some of the tensions of the afternoon and trying to decide if he had the energy to cook tonight or if he should just order take away, when Sherlock whirled into the room carrying John’s laptop.

“Finally, John! We have a fascinating case, the least you can do is get home from the surgery on time. As we discussed this morning, we need to get a post on your blog directly about our relationship and the civil partnership ceremony to help cement to the public the authenticity of our marriage. Mrs. Hudson gave me a CD copy of her photos, you will need to pick one to use for the blog. I have written the blog entry for you, but since you objected rather stridently the last time I posted without your approval, I have it ready for your perusal,” Sherlock said, all the while moving rapidly around the room, one hand barely holding the laptop, the other hand gesturing widely.

“Sherlock! Laptop! Table! Now!” John barked, his stomach dropping through his feet, watching his flatmate swing his laptop around. If the gangly lout dropped it, John would have to save for several months to replace it. Sherlock’s cases kept John’s availability so erratic that he had a hard time making sure there was enough money for food and their rent, much less saving up money for extras.  John was constantly grateful that Sarah had stayed friends with him and was so understanding of Sherlock’s need for his help, otherwise he doubted he would have been able to keep up his locum work at her surgery.

Sherlock pouted at John’s command, unfortunately rather adorably John thought, abandoning the laptop on to the messy desk table they shared in the sitting room. “John! Don’t fuss, just read the entry I wrote on your laptop and then post it to your blog,” he ordered, walking over the coffee table to collapse onto the couch, waving a graceful hand at John, shooing him off the couch toward the laptop.

“Just let me get a cup of tea, Sherlock, it was a really long day,” John sighed, moving into the kitchen.

“Sarah and the rest of the staff send their congratulations by the way. Apparently they think we will make a fantastic pair. I had to talk fast to convince them that we didn’t need wedding gifts. Seriously, when this is over, you are going to help me explain to everyone why we pulled a fast one. I’m not going to take all the flak for this,” John said several minutes later, settling in front of his laptop with his cup of tea.

Sherlock just waved a dismissive hand from the couch, “Blog, John.”

John started laughing softly as he read the entry Sherlock had written. “Sherlock you seriously didn’t expect me to post this on my blog, did you? I’m sorry, but no one I know would ever believe that I would announce my marriage, not to mention come out to the entire world, this way.”

John pointed at a few specific lines Sherlock had written, adding, “And the tone of the writing is definitely yours, I don’t think I have used that many three syllable words in a row since I graduated from medical school. And I really don’t think anyone cares about the history of civil partnerships or would imagine that I do.” John gave an apologetic shrug, trying to prevent the pout he could feel coming by offering, “You can use this one to put on your website if you want. How about I order some take away and then I’ll type up my own blog entry. You can revise it when I’m done if you feel it’s necessary, okay?”

Sherlock had rolled his eyes and made a grumpy hurmping noise, which John chose to take as agreement. An hour later, during which he got several rude comments about his two finger typing method and how John really should have finished the blog before taking time out to eat, John finally had something put together that he liked. It had almost been too easy, he just let his feelings out, or what he actually would have been feeling if this had been real. He was walking a fine line. If he went a little too far, Sherlock would figure out his feelings and he would lose everything. John figured that it was a good thing he was an adrenaline junky or the stress would have him going stark raving mad.

“Alright, Sherlock, what do you think of this?” John finally asked, taking the laptop over to the couch, laying it on Sherlock’s lap as he took a seat on the coffee table.

“I suppose it is similar to your blog entries and case histories, but really John, a tad overly romantic don’t you think?” Sherlock said after reading it, his voice teasing.

“Sherlock,” John replied laughing a little, “I dislike arguing with my husband on our wedding day, this is my personal blog not a research article, and my friends will be expecting at least some personal information, especially if you want use it as a blind for the kidnapper. I promise not to write any sonnets about your grey eyes, but I’m certainly not going to describe my husband and marriage in clinical terms either.”

Sherlock made a grimacing smile at John’s comment, before conceding. “Fine, now which picture should we post?”

John had also considered his photo choices while writing the blog entry; Mrs. Hudson had taken a surprising amount of snapshots that morning. Several of the photos made John cringe internally, unable to understand how anyone, much less Sherlock could look at the photo and not realize just how much of John’s heart was visible. The one of Sherlock kissing John’s ring had been so glaringly, painfully obvious that John had considered running right then and there. John knew before this was over he was going to get copies of those photos, and that one in particular, and stash them somewhere Sherlock wouldn’t find. In the end he had picked one that Mrs. Hudson had taken just as John had finished sliding the ring on to Sherlock’s finger. John felt safe with this shot; it seemed to show an emotional bond between the two of them without making John feel exposed.

“Hmmm… That one works,” Sherlock said with mild approval.

John closed his eyes for a moment, considering all the people he would have to face when he eventually had to explain that Sherlock had only married him for a case. “You’re sure this is the right move, Sherlock? We need to do this to solve the case?”

“John, this is vital.”

“Alright then,” John said, puling the laptop back around to face him. A few moments of two finger typing and, “It’s done. Lord save us from what our friends and relatives are going to do to us. Speaking of relatives, I’m going to ignore any of Harry’s calls tonight, so don’t be surprised if she starts ringing you. Feel free to ignore her. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”

Sherlock had nodded, turning John’s laptop back to face himself. “I think we should be ready to start checking out some of the activities tomorrow. I presumed that it would look out of character if we went out tonight, wedding night and all that,” Sherlock looked at him for confirmation and John nodded, “but I thought that since we aren’t going on a honeymoon trip, it would be alright to join the London Heathside tomorrow morning. I arranged for us to have our initial meeting be with a coach at the YMCA on Tottenham Lane instead of joining their training runs in the evening.”

“Something special about this coach?” John asked, having long since learned that Sherlock never arranged these things by chance.

“Excellent deduction John,” Sherlock said in mock approval, John just rolling his eyes. “The coach was working with the Ashdown’s in preparation for a marathon prior to their disappearance.”

“Ashdowns?”

“The second couple, the case in which the constabulary assumed the husband killed the wife,” Sherlock answered. “I can find no apparent link between the coach and the other victims but he appears to be the closest person to this couple. If nothing else, he likely knows information of which he is unaware. Fortunately the coach is also a veteran, so you will be able to form a bond with him that will allow us to obtain information, while leaving him ignorant of our true intentions.”

John just rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s assumption that John would be able convince this former soldier to give up whatever information that Sherlock thought he required. “Right, full case mode then,” John said, starting to push himself up off the coffee table. “In that case, I’m going to turn in for the night unless you need me for anything else this evening?”

“Ah, John, my dear husband, I will always need you,” Sherlock replied, a teasing smile on his face. “But if you insist on wasting perfectly good deduction time by sleeping, I can pester Gladstone tonight.”

John laughed and went to bed, leaving Sherlock setting John’s laptop aside and starting to look through the case files again. Lying in bed, John lifted up his left hand and looked at the ring again. His thumb swept across the inlay, wishing he had Sherlock’s memory so he could imprint this feeling forever. Unconventional the day had been, and not entirely comfortable, which honestly was a good description of almost every day in his life since he had met Sherlock. John thought that his wedding day had suited him perfectly and tomorrow promised to be interesting. He smiled to himself and rolled over to sleep.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John looked around in appreciation as they entered into the fitness club the next morning, his workout bag slung over his shoulder. He would have to look into getting membership when this case was over. This place was only a mile or so from Baker Street and had excellent workout equipment. John thought it would probably help him keep up with Sherlock on cases if he had a better workout regimen.

“Really, John, I didn’t think you were the kind to worry about your figure,” Sherlock grumbled in his ear. “Mrs. Hudson was just complaining to me this morning that I really should feed you more. She was sure you were losing weight again.”

“Ha, bloody ha,” John replied, turning around to face Sherlock. “We all can’t live by osmosis and tea. If you must know, I was actually thinking that a more regular work out program would be good for my leg so I could keep up with my great galoot of a flatmate when he decides to go haring off over the rooftops.”

Sherlock actually looked a little taken aback at this reply and opened and closed his mouth a few times without saying anything, obviously realizing he had said something a bit not good but was not sure what and what he should do to fix it.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes?” A questioning voice said from behind John, before Sherlock could decide what to say. John turned and found himself facing a tall athletic looking man in his mid to late thirties.

“Ahh…, Mr. Walsh.” Sherlock said, placing a hand on the small of John’s back, herding him towards the other man. “This is my husband, John Watson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Watson, Jeremy Walsh,” The trainer introduced himself, offering his hand to John.

“John and Sherlock, please,” John replied, shaking his hand. “We really appreciate you meeting us now. My work schedule makes it difficult to go to the regular Tuesday evening intro run.”

“Not a problem, not a problem. Sherlock tells me that you are looking to train together for a half marathon as part of some recommended physical therapy.”

John did an internal sigh, wishing once again that Sherlock would fill him in on the details before dumping him into these situations, before answering, “Yeah I had a shoulder and leg injury in Afghanistan, the leg was bad enough that I had to use a cane for a couple months. I’m still having some intermittent stiffness problems and my physical therapist thought some routine training for distance running might help.”

“You were wounded in action, I thought I noted on your blog that you were an army doc?” Jeremy asked.

John nodded, and when he didn’t add anything Sherlock replied for him, sounding proud. “John was a combat zone surgeon.”

Jeremy smiled and reached out to shake John’s hand again, “Well, sir, it’s an honor to meet you.  A combat surgeon put me and one of my mates back together after an IED took out our vehicle in Iraq back in ‘04. You lot do amazing work.”

John muttered embarrassed thanks, taking Jeremy’s hand again. John decided it was time to change the conversation, wishing Sherlock would jump in instead of standing there with a half grin on his face, looking every inch the perfect example of a proud spouse, all the while prodding John subtly in the back, obviously thinking John needed to get on with it. “So how did you become a trainer?” John asked somewhat randomly, trying to get a conversation going.

“When I got back from Iraq I needed some mild physical therapy and something to do to keep me from going stir crazy, so I joined to start training for a full marathon. I rapidly got addicted to the ‘runner’s high’ and eventually realized I enjoyed helping my friends improve their training programs. So I went back to school to get a degree in physical therapy and got myself certified, oh, about four or five years ago,” Jeremy replied somewhat self-consciously.

“Excellent,” Sherlock cut in. “My research into your records indicates that you have successfully trained more than twenty separate couples like John and myself to compete in various marathons and half-marathons. In fact, there were only three couples you trained who did not have completed marathons listed.” John’s relief at Sherlock’s ability to manipulate the conversation towards the Ashdowns was only dampened by his wish to strangle the man for his lack of tact. It probably didn’t even occur to the idiot that his approach was more than a bit aggressive.

Jeremy’s face was a study in confusion, “Umm…”

“Sorry Jeremy, if you have seen my blog you know Sherlock is a genius detective, and …well this is the consulting detective in action,” John rushed in quickly, before Jeremy became too offended. “Sherlock always researches every aspect of anything extensively and always wants to know every angle.”

“Of course I researched your coach, John, don’t be dim. If I didn’t get you the best your therapy might be slowed by your trainer’s incompetence,” Sherlock replied, obviously irritated by John’s attempt to smooth things over.

“Sherlock,” John groaned, his hand coming up to cover his face, sure that Sherlock had just destroyed whatever good will he had managed to gain, when Jeremy started laughing.

“Alright, well in that case, I’m honored that you considered me good enough to work with your husband, you obviously take good care of him,” Jeremy said continuing to chuckle. John flushing slightly, grasping that Jeremy was amused, imagining Sherlock was a dotting concerned husband.

“Excellent. Then what happened with the three couples who didn’t complete the marathon?” Sherlock asked, his eyes sharpening, observing Jeremy’s response.

“One couple the wife became pregnant and wasn’t allowed to continue and the other couple broke up during training and didn’t get along well enough to continue together.”

“And the third couple?” John asked, quickly noticing Sherlock’s mild frown, stepping slightly backwards to land on Sherlock’s foot to prevent him from saying anything unwittingly offensive.

Sherlock sucked in a slightly pained breath as Jeremy looked uncomfortable and took a long look at the consulting detective before deciding to answer. “Actually given your reputation it wouldn’t take you long to find out so I might as well tell you. They disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Sherlock asked, obviously trying to elicit more information.

“Well the police were saying it looked like Derek killed Pam before running away to Norway, but they never found either one of them,” Jeremy said oddly defensively.

“If the police are sure, they must have some pretty convincing evidence,” Sherlock replied. John was a little proud of himself since he realized Sherlock was using his contradictory questioning technique to elicit information.

“No, I can’t believe that Derek killed Pam,” Jeremy said forcefully. “Not only were they one of the most loving committed couples I have ever met, Derek despised the cold, he never would have gone to Norway by himself. I told the DI investigating that it was completely ridiculous to imagine him going to Norway on his own, but that idiot wouldn’t listen to me. Pam kept all these travel brochures around for cruises and tours, they were convinced that this was proof that Derek would have been able to quickly plan a trip. It’s ridiculous; probably the only thing he and Pam disagreed about was taking their anniversary trip there. If he disliked it enough that he wouldn’t go there with the wife he loved, why would he go there to run away? Something horrible happened to them, but Derek didn’t kill Pam,” Jeremy finished in an irritated rush.

“Yes, why would he,” Sherlock mused. “Perhaps it was a ruse, pretend he didn’t like Norway thinking it would make it the perfect place to hide.”

“Well then he wasn’t very successful now was he? The police are convinced that that is where he is hiding,” Jeremy threw back. “Besides, they hadn’t told anyone yet, but they were thinking about adopting. Derek showed me the several of those informational leaflets about the process. He and Pam were both so excited, but they didn’t want to tell many people until they had completed some of the steps and might have a chance to adopt. They would have been such good parents,” Jeremy finished, his voice trailing off in sadness as Sherlock practically drank in every word. John reached out a hand and squeezed the man’s arm, trying to offer him sympathy for the pain he obviously still felt at the loss of his friends so many years before.

“Sherlock didn’t mean to pick old scabs, Mr. Walsh,” John finally said into the tense silence. “He is just incapable of leaving a mystery alone. I would understand if you didn’t want to train us, but as one old soldier to another, I would appreciate it if you would still consider it,” John requested, trying to salvage something of the situation. He knew Sherlock probably wasn’t completely done with Jeremy, even though no more questions were immediately forthcoming.

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, it’s okay. I tend to overreact when I talk about the Ashdowns, I considered them both my friends and I really feel the DI on the case didn’t serve them well.” Jeremy shook his head before continuing. “Alright, I need you both to fill out these health forms, and then if you could change into some workout clothes and meet me by the resistance machines, we’ll do some evaluations of you both and come up with a training schedule. Okay?”

John looked at Sherlock, who had his fingers steepled under his chin and was obviously thinking deeply. “Yeah that sounds like a plan. Give us twenty minutes?” Jeremy nodded and moved away, still obviously tense.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tugged him over to a counter on the wall. “Sherlock? Sherlock, you with me here?”

Sherlock look at John quizzically for a moment. “Yes, John?”

“You need to fill out this medical questionnaire.”

“You fill them out, John, I need to think. Mr. Walsh’s information was interesting. The case notes had no information about possible adoptions or Mr. Ashdown’s apparent dislike of the cold. Although several of the interviews mentioned Norway, there was no mention about which spouse wanted the trip.”

“And it means…?” John asked, starting to fill out their info.

“No idea yet. Fewer questions and more writing, John. We only have eighteen minutes before we have to meet Mr. Walsh.”

“Good lord, I have filled out shorter medical questionnaires for you at A&E,” John grumbled under his breath as he filled in the information. “Hmmm… No family history of diabetes, no history of epilepsy, one gunshot wound to left shoulder, graze to right knee, no need to mention psychosomatic limp or your drug abuse, although I suppose we should mention you use nicotine patches. By the way, you’re going to have to eat at least two meals every day that we’re running or I’m going to pull the plug on the training. I won’t be picking your scrawny arse off the ground if you pass out from hypoglycemia.” John threw in the teasing comment, although he was serious about the threat, continuing to rapidly work his way down the medical questionnaire. Sherlock grimaced at the demand but he nodded agreement at John’s glare.

“Activity level per day, odd, no box for chasing after criminals across London on an irregular basis, although I do see couch potato on the list,” John said, Sherlock rolling his eyes at the jab. “E-mail address for club activity updates, hmmm…” John looked at Sherlock questioningly.

“Put yours in, John. It might be important to see how the club interacts with its club members.”

“Okay. Just a few more lifestyle questions,” John said muttering to himself, chewing on the end of the pen as he finished the questions. “Alright, done. Let’s go change and see what your drill sergeant of a trainer is going to put us through,” John said, moving towards the changing area, Sherlock following him for once.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Two hours later John followed Sherlock back into the changing area refreshingly tired. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed a well-balanced work out. He frowned a little, watching Sherlock moving slightly stiffly. “Sherlock, did you pull something while we were running that two miles?’

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said waving him off and starting to change, John moving to a bench on the other side of Sherlock so he was facing slightly away from him as he changed. He didn’t want to risk getting caught staring.

“Two hours and he wouldn’t talk about anything but the training,” Sherlock complained. “I need more information. I’m sure that he wasn’t having an affair with either of them, that was obvious from his body language earlier, but he must have been close to them to be so sure that one wouldn’t kill the other. He must…” Sherlock suddenly broke off with a muffled moan, causing John to whip around in concern.

John was moving across the room before he was even aware of what he was doing. “My god, Sherlock, what did you do to your feet?” he said, snapping unconsciously into triage mode. He knelt in front of Sherlock, gently removing his slightly bloody socks. Sherlock had brand new blood blisters, several of them already draining on the sides and top of the big toes and the right heel. “Sherlock, these are going to take a couple of days to heal. When we get back to the flat we’ll ice pack them and then you’re going to have to soak your feet in Epson salts for a while. I’ll bandage the feet up after that, but you’re going to have to let me change the bandages and check the blisters twice a day. I’m not going to deal with an infection,” John lectured. “How did you do this anyway? We run after criminals all the time and I have never seen you limp.”

Sherlock looked embarrassed and started to pull on another pair of dry socks, before finally answering when John stopped him by taking away the socks. “I thought it would be good to fit in so I purchased a new pair of trainers, and I may have forgotten to break them in a little,” Sherlock finally answered a tad defensively.

John laughed lightly, his body shaking, trying to suppress the worst of it in order to not offend Sherlock. “You really need a keeper, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked at this. “Was our civil partnership ceremony that forgettable? I already have a doctor for a husband, why would I need another keeper?”

John just shook his head in reply and kept chuckling softly as he pulled some bandage material out of his bag and applied a temporary bandage.

“So any new lines of inquiry?” John asked a few moments later, the two of them finished changing.

“A few, but nothing definitive. Need more data,” Sherlock answered.

“Alright then genius, let’s get you back to the flat. I’ll fix you up and you can sort out our next step,” John said, pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Of course, dear husband. I am at your command,” Sherlock grinned and led the way out of the fitness center, John rushing behind him to grab their bags and keep up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: For anyone confused by the title, the banns of marriage, commonly known simply as the "banns" or "bans" are the public announcement in the Church of England of an impending marriage between two specified persons. The purpose of banns is to enable anyone to raise any canonical or civil legal impediment to the marriage, so as to prevent marriages that are invalid. Mostly banns are just an announcement of an impending marriage to ones friends and neighbors. So in this case Sherlock and John have not posted Banns, so the blog post is sort of belated banns.
> 
> I want to thank all the great people who reviewed, kudo, subsribed and bookmarked this story. I love hearing all your thoughts and comments. I’m honored to know people think I am on the right track with this story.
> 
> Once again I want to thank my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter who kindly let me bounce a very bad version of this chapter off her in order to fix it and make it a much better chapter. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> I love constructive criticism, but no flames for the slash please. I love everything from grammar and spelling corrections, to your thoughts about whether or not John and Sherlock are in character.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	4. Minutiae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter
> 
> 4/6/2013 Repost Grammer Corrections

Chapter 4 Minutiae

An hour later John sat on the couch endeavoring to bandage Sherlock’s feet while the man fidgeted, plucked absently at his violin, and mumbled to himself. “Sherlock, sit still,” John ordered. “I’m almost done, but if I don’t get these properly bandaged up, who knows what ridiculous disease you’ll manage to pick up from the detritus of your leftover experiments”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stilled his feet. “I need more data, John. What we learned today was interesting but highly inconclusive. In none of the Yard’s interview notes was there any indication that the Ashdowns were considering adoption. The interview notes with Walsh are barely a half page in length and appear to cover only the most basic questions about how often they ran together and if Walsh knew if either was having an affair. DI…” Sherlock paused, setting the violin aside, and using long arms to drag the coffee table closer and shuffle through a few papers, “Morton, who performed the interview, either didn’t ask enough questions to elicit the necessary information or, as our new marathon trainer Walsh indicated, chose to ignore data that didn’t fit his view of the case.” Sherlock tapped interview notes imperiously, finishing with, “That makes the adoption information very interesting and possible useful.”

“How?” John asked applying the last piece of tape to hold the simple bandage wrap on Sherlock’s foot. “Done, I’ll check the bandage again this evening. Please, Sherlock, try not to get it wet or dirty.”

Sherlock nodded, carelessly acknowledging the instructions while answering John’s question. “Adoptions are fraught with emotion and stress. I’m actually surprised that Morton didn’t include that in his report; it would have strengthened the case for uxoricide. Very odd...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, placing the violin on his chest and resumed plucking absently.

“Uxoricide?”

“Hmm… Oh, murder of one’s wife.” Sherlock elaborated, obviously not paying attention to the conversation. Several minutes later, John returned to the room after clearing up his medical kit, Sherlock commanded, “Laptop, John.”

John sighed, moving into the kitchen to retrieve Sherlock’s laptop for the lazy genius instead of handing him John’s, which was lying on the coffee table, barely out of arm’s reach. Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the maneuver. “I need to check my blog,” John answered the silent question. “Judging by the number of missed calls and texts I have been ignoring from Harry and my full voicemail, I’ve more than a few people to answer to. The longer I wait the worse it will get. Unless of course my husband wishes to pass on the good news,” John added somewhat mischievously, laughing out loud when Sherlock shuddered.

“Ahh… well give Harry my… salutations,” Sherlock replied sardonically. It was always painfully evident that Sherlock wanted to say more about Harry and her behavior towards John, but he had learned to keep his observations to a minimum after several rather loud ‘domestics’, which had resulted in John leaving for several hours to cool off. Sherlock’s first, and only, meeting with Harry hadn’t helped matters. John had finally given in to Harry’s demands to visit Baker Street after she had gotten temporarily on the wagon long before The Fall, even before the disastrous Christmas Party. John had made the mistake of running up to his room for a minute to find a photo, and by the time he had returned the situation had been completely out of control.

“You fucking nutter, what do you know! You’re the reason my brother keeps getting into dangerous situations, including almost being blown up.  For all I know you’re the reason he doesn’t call me. What are you holding over him to keep him here?” Harry had been screaming at his flatmate. 

“Now really. Even your alcohol damaged intellect should be able to determine that John didn’t want to deal with your alcoholism while recovering from Afghanistan and that John clearly voluntarily chooses to stay in Baker Street,” Sherlock had snarled back.

John had quickly stepped in between the two of them, “Harry, my ending up strapped to a bomb wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. Moriarty kidnapped me. And for not contacting you immediately afterwards, well…”  John had trailed off, not knowing how to contradict his flatmate without it being blatantly obvious that he was lying.

Harry had not taken John’s defense of his flatmate well, and continued to throw abuse at Sherlock until John lost his temper and escorted her out. She had called the next day and tried to apologize, but the damage had been done and neither one had a good word to say about the other. John still wasn’t sure what had started the fight. Sherlock and Harry both refused to talk about it but John had suspicions involving Sherlock and pointed deductions. John had not allowed them to meet since then, and when meeting with Harry had tried, unsuccessfully, to change her opinion of Sherlock, or at least convince her to be polite.

Harry had gotten even worse after Sherlock’s apparent death, berating John repeatedly for refusing to believe that Sherlock was a fraud. Then once Sherlock had returned and had his reputation restored, she had initially refused to believe the truth and then repeatedly demanded to know why John would choose to live with someone who, according to her, apparently thought so little of John that he hadn’t told John he was alive. John never bothered to explain the truth to her.  He felt sure that there was no way she would keep it to herself, and would likely use it as more ammunition in her verbal war. He never bothered with Sherlock’s opinion once he learned to keep his snarky comments to a minimum, which he mostly did unless John ended up away for several days cleaning up her mess after a bad episode.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from my big bad older sister, although at some point I may ask you to get Mycroft off my back in return,” John retorted, only half joking, picking up his laptop and mobile as he headed up to his room. The text messages from Harry had been less than flattering and he didn’t think Sherlock needed to hear this conversation.

An hour later John was sitting on his bed slowly typing out his last reply to another congratulatory e-mail and trying to finish calming down before he went back downstairs. John was glad that he had dealt with Harry for now but he had not enjoyed the conversation. Harry had been skeptical, too put it mildly.  She ranted that Sherlock wasn’t emotionally aware enough to fall in love much less to marry anyone. Her tirade had then moved onto John’s perceived inadequacies. It had been a barrel of laughs to be told repeatedly by his sister that even if she hated Sherlock, John surely wouldn’t be interesting enough to keep his attention.

Once Harry was done raging about the marriage she moved on to his failures as a brother in general, beginning by heaping abuse on him for not telling her that he was dating his ‘nutter of a flatmate’ before moving back onto her typical topic of trying to pump John for information on how Clara was doing, with John failing to convince her that he hadn’t seen Clara in almost a year. The whole conversation had been made truly priceless when John had realized that the soft clicking noise he was hearing occasionally in the background was Harry refilling a wine glass. At that point he had drummed up an excuse and hung up on her. The only blessing of the conversation was that Harry was so completely incensed with him that he could reasonably avoid talking to her until he had to admit that she was right and that they had gotten married for a case. John rolled his eyes and sighed deeply at the thought. He loved his sister but wished she would get her act together, get back on the wagon and stop trying to run his life.

After finishing up his last e-mail, a reply to a thrilled Mike Stamford, John meandered back down to the sitting room. A small smile lit the corner of his mouth as he leaned in the doorway.

Sherlock was standing on the couch tacking pictures and papers to the much abused wall behind the couch, the smiley face and the bullet holes haphazardly papered over with case notes. While Sherlock sorted he would occasionally throw out a comment, apparently for John to hear.  John was never sure how he should feel about this particular eccentricity of his friend. He was honored that Sherlock thought John was important enough to share his ideas with, a worthy audience so to speak, and John was very rarely told off for ‘thinking too loud’, disturbing Sherlock’s ideas. John just never knew quite what to make of the fact that in some of these moods Sherlock was as unaware of John’s absence as he was unbothered by his presence, he just continued to talk to John either way. Today it amused him, he loved seeing Sherlock in full case mode; so alive.

Sherlock spun suddenly and jumped off the couch, wincing slightly when he landed on his blistered feet before striding quickly towards the desk, frowning slightly at John. “You really should have limited your conversation with Harry to ten minutes. That level of tension can’t possibly be good for your shoulder,” Sherlock said, digging through the files on the desk.  “So what do you think of the plans for tonight?”

John frowned, “What plans, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned from the table and blinked at him, “The ones I mentioned about a half an hour ago. Your conversations with Harry typically last ten to fifteen minutes depending on her level of inebriation, and I estimated an additional ten minutes would be necessary due to the discussion of our marriage, so you would have arrived down here about thirty minutes ago,” Sherlock answered, frowning when John just shrugged his shoulders. “The club, dancing tonight,” Sherlock continued waving an irritated hand.

John just sighed. “Sherlock, I just got back down here a few minutes ago. I also had to reply to some e-mails, so I didn’t hear the plans. And, Sherlock, no dancing tonight, not on your feet. Maybe tomorrow night.” John put up a hand before he could interrupt, “If they seem to be healing properly. You’re the one who arranged the meeting with our trainer on Sunday, that’s only three days from now. If you don’t let your feet heal properly, you could do some serious damage to yourself on Sunday.”

Sherlock frowned, irritated, “John, I told you, we need to get out and explore these people’s lives. There must be points of intersection somewhere, but they won’t become apparent to me unless I can see how they lived.”

“Fine, Sherlock, I get that,” John groused back, “but if I remember correctly there were other activities on that list that don’t involve you damaging your injured feet, besides, I doubt the couples went out on Thursday nights to go clubbing. Friday and Saturday nights are typically date nights and, in my experience, are much more popular because there is no work the next day,” John supplied with a sudden burst of inspiration, hoping the information on boring human behavior might win the fight, since if Sherlock was truly attached to this plan of attack for the case, he had no chance of not ending up in a club tonight.

Sherlock frowned for a moment, actually seeming to consider John’s words, before turning back to look at his case wall. “Does date night only apply to clubbing or would those who enjoy pub quizzes normally be willing to attend on other nights?” Sherlock asked.

John heaved an internal sigh before answering, “I haven’t personally done the pub quiz routine, but I imagine that they would normally go on whatever night the pub was holding the game.”

“Hmmm… In that case we will be headed to the pub tonight.”

John nodded, closing his eyes in anticipated horror. “So pub quizzes, huh? Alright then. Lunch?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Not hungry, John.”

John just turned and stared at Sherlock, best military doctor look plastered on his face.  “Two meals a day on training days, Sherlock.”

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped, “but a small meal. I need to think.” John didn’t reply, he just smiled to himself as he turned away, moving into the kitchen.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John felt himself tensing slightly when he followed Sherlock into the pub. Normally he would have been chuffed to have a night out at the pub, usually with Stamford or other mates who had been discharged from the service, even occasionally Lestrade. He just couldn’t imagine it with Sherlock, even on a case. Moving further into the pub the sheer number and variety of people there surprised him; he hadn’t grasped how popular pub quizzes were.

John started, almost stopping in surprise when Sherlock reached back without looking and grabbed John’s hand, urging him forward into the midst of the crowd. When John was finally even with Sherlock in a small quiet spot near the center of the crowd, he was astounded to discover that Sherlock didn’t loosen his grip, but leaned his body down slightly and whispered into his ear, “We need to mingle with some of the groups and join one of the smaller teams. Charm them for me please, dear doctor.” John worked very hard to hide the shiver of electricity that ran through his body as Sherlock’s breath ghosted over his ear.

John covered the attempt to gather his thoroughly scattered thoughts by scanning the crowd. “Any…” John stopped to clear his throat a little, “anyone in particularly we need to find tonight?”

Sherlock shook his head, “When the first couple, the Turpins, disappeared the other couple on their team stopped going to the pubs. At least according to the other couples’ social media websites.”

“So what are we doing here if none of these people knew the first couple?” John asked, confused.

“You really are getting better at asking the correct questions, John.” Sherlock beamed at him. John glared back, not in the mood to be patronized. “This was the only outside activity the Turpins participated in, it is highly plausible that they crossed paths with him in this very pub.”

“Yeah, but it’s been five years, Sherlock, and I don’t remember you saying that any of the other couples came here.”

“True, but something in this activity caused the Turpins to come to the kidnapper’s attention.  Always start at the beginning whenever possible, John,” Sherlock said before leaning forward again and saying, “Now we really need to mingle before everyone gets settled.”

John rolled his eyes before turning to scan the room again. “Aright then, let’s get me a drink and go find the quizmaster. They can probably introduce us to a team or two that takes on newcomers.”

Five minutes later they were being introduced to a married couple in their late twenties or early thirties “John. Sherlock.” John introduced them, elbowing Sherlock in the ribs to remind him to shake hands, another part of him relaxing when it became obvious that neither one of the couple recognized their names.

“Nice to meet you, Abby, and my husband, Neal,” said the redheaded woman, smiling politely, introducing herself and partner. “I always love to meet newcomers. What brings you here?”

“Ahh…We decided that we got into a bit of a rut at home recently and wanted to try something new,” John answered as they sat on the bench opposite the couple, deciding that if Sherlock didn’t provide any details John could make up the story he wanted and let Sherlock play along. “Didn’t want to be dull, boring, predictable...” John continued, smiling slightly mischievously, linking his right hand with Sherlock’s left and set their joined hands on the table.

Abby smiled at them from across the table, her eyes taking on an almost identical look to the women from the surgery when she spotted the ring on Sherlock’s finger, her eyes swinging quickly to John’s and noticing his. “How long have you been together?” she asked. “And what beautiful taste in rings you have.”

John smiled but before he could speak Sherlock cut in with, “I thought you were exaggerating, John, but it really is amazing how quickly women notice wedding rings.”

John burst out laughing, quickly joined by Neal and Abby. “Mate you really need to be more observant if you just realized that,” Neal chortled at Sherlock, causing John to laugh even harder, practically sliding off the bench at the idea of an unobservant Sherlock. Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment before joining in the laughter.

John caught his breath listening to Sherlock answer Abby’s question, “I met John a little under three years ago. Sadly I must admit it took me longer than it should have to figure out his importance in my life, but he was kind enough to consent to be my husband anyway.”

John had to control the urge to praise Sherlock for his acting, the man really was amazingly good, but John had a quick thought and decided that if Sherlock was going to play that game with strangers twice in one day, John could too. And if John was not a great actor he certainly had more experience in flirting than the detective. “Ahh…, My dear Sherlock, it’s hard to turn down what makes you feel alive,” John said, smiling teasingly while raising Sherlock’s ring finger to his lips and kissing the ring in a deliberate imitation of Sherlock’s move at the end of the ceremony yesterday.

Sherlock turned back to the other couple keeping John’s hand in his and sliding himself closer to John on the bench, asking Neal, “I’ve never done a pub quiz before, John suggested it as something we could try. How does it work?”

“Pretty simple on a night like tonight. The quizmaster will be around in a few minutes with blank question sheets for us to put a team name on. This lot runs five rounds with ten questions in each round. At the end of each round all the teams turn in their answer sheet. Bottom team at the end of each round is dropped out of the game. Last team standing at the end of the five rounds with the highest score wins,” Neal summarized, Sherlock concentrating intently, while John used his thumb to massage the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“So what categories are on the tick for this evening?” John asking out of enlightened self-interest. Sherlock got stroppy at QI and he couldn’t imagine him keeping up the act if every category tonight was about movie idols or popular knowledge.

Abby pointed at a card on the table, “Hard to say, they pick five sections randomly from a pool of fifteen, could be anything from science to music to sports.”

John continued to make conversation with Abby and Neal, with Sherlock throwing in a word here and there, although it was obvious to John that he was surreptitiously watching the crowd. A few minutes later when the quiz started John found that it was a lot more fun than he would have ever predicted. John even found as the evening progressed that he was relaxing and very easily behaving like he was just having a night out with Sherlock his friend, not Sherlock his fake husband. John behaved almost entirely normally with Sherlock as the night went on, just throwing in a soft touch to Sherlock’s forearm here and there. He also got to continue enjoying his hand being held by Sherlock, the man didn’t let it go very long for most of the evening. Sherlock used it to give John subtle directions, giving a small squeeze or tug when he wanted John to continue a line of conversation, or look at something. Although most of the time John had no idea why Sherlock was having him do that, which was an entirely normal feeling. It was obvious that Abby at least took their behavior to be the mannerism of a couple.

Unexpectedly, the four of them did very well. Sherlock was absolutely rubbish at the first category, popular actors of the nineties, but John was able to help Abby and Neal with a few questions, so they managed to get enough points to stay in the game. Sherlock blew them all away in the second category though. The quiz master would pipe a short segment of music through the speakers and they needed to identify either the song or the composer. Sherlock got them all, even some of the popular music, to John’s great surprise.

“Fantastic!” John said, staring at Sherlock. “I can see you knowing the classical stuff, I’ve heard you play most of those at the flat, but I’m surprised you knew all that top forty songs.”

Sherlock just smiled. “Ahh..., John, wouldn’t want to tell you all of my secrets and ruin my mystique, now would I?” John just burst out laughing.

In the end their team won. Sherlock didn’t know all the questions but almost anything he didn’t know, or couldn’t deduce, John, Abby, or Neal had a good chance of knowing since it was usually stuff Sherlock classified as popular culture and therefore dull. That said John managed to surprise them all by knowing the answer to an obscure question about Sikhism. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, asking a silent question while Neal and Abby congratulated him. “Afghanistan, remember? One of the locals who worked with my unit was Sikh, he wasn’t adverse to answering questions.”

After accepting their prize of coupons for free food and drink at various pubs, they said good night to Abby and Neal. “Mate, that was brilliant,” Neal said, shaking John’s hand, “Abby and I haven’t done that well in ages, we’re both tone deaf so we always get stuck on the music stuff. You know if you two wanted to do more of this there is a round robin tournament next weekend for a fundraiser. Our team is already full and we don’t have any more spaces, more’s the pity, but if you’re interested you two could make your own team.”

“Oh?” John asked absentmindedly, worrying about how early he was going to need to be the next morning for his shift, it was now getting quite late. He vaguely wondered if Sherlock had learned all he needed and might be ready to go.

“Yeah,” Abby said holding out a card to John, “It’s for a children’s cancer ward, if you’re interested there’s an application on this website.”  John’s tongue was suddenly stuck to the roof of his mouth and his heart rate kicked up several notches when Sherlock abruptly moved up behind him and ran one arm about John’s waist and with his other hand reached forward, plucking the card from Abby’s hand, looking at it briefly before tucking it into John’s trouser pocket.

“We shall certainly consider it, but for now I must get John home, it’s long past his usual bed time,” Sherlock said, practically dragging John out of the pub, his arm never leaving John’s waist until they reached the street and Sherlock moved forward to hail a cab. John was still blushing and disorientated when a stray thought about Sherlock’s usual inability to notice innuendo occurred to him.

“Sherlock,” John said trying to control the laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Do you actually know what you just implied to that couple?”

Sherlock grinned, “Honestly, John, we needed to get out of there so you can get some sleep, you have an early shift tomorrow. I cannot be held to blame if those dull people make incorrect deductions.” John smiled back and shook his head.

“I hope you learned something to help the case,” John yawned, once they were settled in the cab, his adrenaline kick from the evening starting to wear off. “I would hate to have had you waste that amazing acting you did back there.”

“Nothing wasted, John.”

After a moment of waiting for Sherlock to elaborate, John prodded, “Well? What did you learn?”

“Abby and Neal have been married for four years, and were reunited after a several month separation approximately six months ago due to financial stresses. -The quizmaster is shagging the leader of the second place team. The bartender was highly interested in pursuing a relationship with you, and would have asked you out on a date despite my presence except you failed to notice her rather obvious advances. The couple at the table to the left of us are considering a divorce, the brunette woman sitting in the all-girl college team three tables over is undergoing a sexual identity crisis as she is discovering herself to be attracted to her blond teammate, who I believe, but lack the data to prove, is her roommate and is currently in a relationship with a male. And finally, these coupons appear to be nothing more than an attempt to get us to pay to participate in other events. They do not appear to cover more than half of what one would need for an evening out,” Sherlock words coming out in a tumbled rush.

John stared at his flatmate for a moment before snorting, “Been holding that in all evening?”

“Yes, this acting normal business is exhausting and dull,” Sherlock groaned. “I’m surprised that the kidnapper didn’t pull more couples from the pub quizzes. On top of how open Abby and Neal were to us, utter strangers, about their lives, the people at the surrounding tables were giving both close friends and new acquaintances a great deal of personal information. It astounds me how little awareness individuals have of their surroundings. The kidnapper could effortlessly accumulate at least basic data and start hunting for his prey. Even if he had to switch pubs and venues to avoid being noticed, the victim pool is large and varied, so one would think he could find numerous couples to fit his criteria.” Sherlock paused for a moment, fingers steepled under his chin, concentrating, “So something changed.”

“Do you think something went wrong?” John asked after considering Sherlock’s words. “He tried to grab a different couple and I don’t know… It didn’t work or he almost got caught so he went elsewhere to stalk people as a safety precaution against being identified?”

“Possible,” Sherlock said. “Again, not enough data to hypothesize accurately. I can think of at least seven distinct reasons that would have caused him to switch his hunting ground.”

“Alright. So what’s the next step?” John asked.

“Need to open up some more lines of inquiry,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow when you finish your shift I need you to stop at British Association for Adoption and Fostering and pick up some brochures on the adoption process. The information available online was useful but hardly complete, and I would like to be sure of the steps that the Ashdowns may have been taking. I intend to meet with several relatives of the missing couples tomorrow and I might be back late. So be ready to go clubbing tomorrow night.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and added before John could voice a protest, “I’m sure that you will have cleared my feet by then, you indicated they were healing well earlier.”

“Fine, Sherlock,” John said resignedly. At least he had managed to keep his friend off his feet for one night. “Are you telling the families that you are investigating the disappearances?” John frowned briefly. “Wouldn’t there be a risk of them talking and spreading the word that you are looking into the cases again?”

“It would, but they won’t know that I’m looking into the cases. I have several different cover stories to meet with these relatives. I’ve scheduled a meeting the sister of the husband of the fifth couple under the guise of an old college friend recently returned from overseas who wanted to catch up with an old mate,” Sherlock answered. “I have other similar cover stories for the other relatives.”

John nodded and then unable to help himself, “Okay, just be careful not to open too many old wounds alright? These people are probably holding out hope every day that they come back.”

“Don’t be obvious, John. If I upset these individuals too much, they may ask questions or remember me. That would be counterproductive, as I don’t know if any of the relatives are under any kind of surveillance from the kidnapper,” Sherlock huffed, leading the way out of the cab as it arrived at Baker Street, John paying the cabbie before he followed his flatmate upstairs towards a well-deserved rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes:
> 
> Thanks to all the wonderful people who are taking the time to review. I love hearing all your thoughts and comments. I also want to thank all the people who have reviewed, kudo, bookmarked and subsrcibed to this story I consider it an honor.
> 
>  
> 
> I love constructive criticism, so please review.  
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	5. Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter (Thank you Ivory the Amazing) All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 5 Rhythm

John opened the door to Baker Street and faced the seventeen steps up to his flat with a dark look on his face, holding in his arms what felt like twenty pounds of paper. Today had been more than ‘a bit not good’ as he had once said to the great detective, and a good chunk of that could be laid right at that man’s feet. John had gotten up early to find the detective pacing in the sitting room, muttering to himself about the case. It had taken fifteen minutes and finally a threat to knock him down and sit on him to get Sherlock to sit down on the couch and allow his bandages to be changed. His feet were healing really well, and if it had been anyone but Sherlock he would have left the bandages off, but you never knew what kind of mischief the man was capable of creating.

The day hadn’t gotten any better at the surgery, to which of course he had been late thanks to Sherlock. The women at the surgery had more questions now that the blog post was up, most of which were personal enough that he wouldn’t have wanted to answer even if the ceremony had been real. The cold and flu season was moving into full blast and it felt like every other patient today was a concerned parent with a screaming toddler, whom the parent was sure was dying, when what they really needed was a little paracetamol to control fever, lots of fluids, and cuddling with their parents. He knew he should be more sympathetic, but repeating the same treatment plan over and over during the day just got exhausting.

Sherlock had not made work any easier. Texts with apparently random information from the case kept arriving at odd moments throughout the day, distracting him during appointments, and since Sherlock didn’t deign to add any details about which couple he was talking about, John found the information both useless and exasperating.  As the text number started to climb upwards of fifty, they slowly and steadily wore away at what little good humor John had started the day with, and left him extremely irritable.

**Sister claims that they wouldn’t have left without discussing it with her, even though they had not spoken in nine months – SH**

**House is set back from road with no near neighbors. Would have been easy to remove victims without being observed. - SH**

**Father believes daughter was murdered and spouse fled with a new partner. Father had not spoken to daughter in 18 months due to coming out prior to her marriage and had no proof of an affair, just assumption – SH**

**Do couples undergo interviews separately or together? - SH**

**Crime scene photos and case report failed to show that foliage would have prevented even old ladies with twitching curtains from noticing anyone leaving from the rear. - SH**

**Cousin believes police that they ran off to Rio Grande. Idiot. – SH**

**Mother and father divorced over stress of losing son.  Each blames the other for loss of contact with son. Useless as data source contains too much sentiment. – SH**

**How many home interviews would need to be done prior to adoption and at what point in the process would this have begun? Internet tediously vague with answer. - SH**

On and on the text messages came, random bits of information about the interviews, locations, and commands to pick up specific information from the British Association for Adoption and Fostering. John had to read them all because you never knew with Sherlock if a message was going to be him passing on data, whining about boredom, or the more frightening, **John, unexpected experimental result, what did you do with my fire extinguisher? – SH**. John had confiscated the blow torch and the Bunsen burner for an entire week after that incident, provoking a full blown sulk from Sherlock, who claimed the damage to the kitchen table had been minimal and demanded to know what John was so worried about anyway as the test results had been absolutely fascinating. John had relented and returned them when he arrived home one day from work and the table had been replaced and two new additional fire extinguishers had appeared in the flat. He would have thought that Mycroft had replaced the table except for the fact that Sherlock didn’t immediately destroy the table simply to irritate his brother.

When he finally escaped both his patients and Sarah, John made his way over to the British Association for Adoption and Fostering to try and get the information Sherlock required. In order to get it though he had to sit through consultations with three different people, all of whom were perfectly nice, but completely focused on finding out exactly how interested John was in adopting and, even to John’s eye, obviously trying to determine if he would make a good adoptive or foster parent. He had eventually escaped after more than an hour with a detailed binder elaborating every step in the foster and adoption process, along with enough brochures about various groups who helped people with the process, and the names of numerous psychiatrists with whom one could make an appointment to begin the initial part of the interview process.

John was carefully trying not to drop all this paperwork as he climbed - not stomped, John definitely did not stomp - up the stairs to the flat, although he would have much preferred to just throw the lot into the air and let it land where it felt like. It would have been very satisfying right up until the point where he had to pick it all up. Instead he very carefully set the bundle on the sitting room table before plopping down in his chair with an exhausted sigh.

John knew he should get up and make some tea, or even find something to eat. It was going to be a long night again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just needed a few minutes to himself to relax in his chair with his eyes closed, and try to let go of the day before he had to deal with the consulting madman. The lack of noise was a sure sign that Sherlock had yet to arrive from wherever he had harried off to for the day.

“Whoo hoo.” John stifled a groan as his landlady announced her presence. He loved Mrs. Hudson like a grandmother, but right now he would have preferred another few minutes to himself. John forced himself to sit up. “Evening, Mrs. Hudson. How was your day?”

“Oh, good, dear,” Mrs. Hudson answered, walking towards John carrying a box. “I have wedding present for you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you didn’t have to get us anything,” John said, guilt immediately rising to the surface, while he stood up and moved towards his landlady.

“Oh, it’s really nothing, dear. I know how Sherlock feels about sentiment and caring, but I thought you might appreciate a little something to remember the ceremony by,” Mrs. Hudson replied, waving off John’s concerns, handing him the box. John carefully opened it, his grip reflexively tightening in surprise. He was looking down at a photo of himself and Sherlock at the civil partnership ceremony in a beautiful dark wooden frame. But not any photo - she had framed the shot of Sherlock kissing his ring. John felt a small blush running up his neck at the sight; to his great embarrassment since ex-army doctors shouldn’t blush about something so pointedly non-risqué.

“Thank you,” John said, not sure what else to say. “This is very kind, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Think nothing of it. I am sure neither of you boys would have thought of it, and in my experience all couples enjoy a photograph of their big day,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at him, and then frowned a little. “I hope you are planning on having a quiet evening in, you’re looking a little peaked. Long day, dear?”

John shook his head. “Cold and flu season, Mrs. Hudson, and I had to run some errands for Sherlock. You know how he gets when he is on a case. Needs his data twenty minutes before he requested it, if not sooner.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled and nodded in knowing agreement, “Yes, he does let himself get a little obsessed with his work, but at least now he has you to bring him out of his head and help him when he needs it,” Mrs. Hudson replied with a knowing smile, patting his arm comfortingly, before asking a little worriedly, “Are you sure you’re okay? I do tend to worry about you, you know. You got so thin when Sherlock was...while Sherlock was gone and I would hate to see you become unwell again now that I have gotten you back up to fighting trim again.”

John smiled fondly at his landlady, “I promise I am fine, Mrs. Hudson. It really was just a long day at the surgery and Sherlock being Sherlock.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled back, “Well, dear, if you are okay, I’m off out. Mrs. Turner and I have plans for the evening. You tell that genius husband of yours that if he doesn’t take care of you properly, I will have something to say about it.”

John stood there after she left, just looking at the photo for a moment before turning to the mantelpiece. He pulled Sherlock’s jackknife out of the wood and dumped it and the papers that it had been holding onto the table, before placing the frame there on the mantle next to the skull.  Mrs. Hudson would enjoy finding it there the next time she popped up to pretend she wasn’t their housekeeper. She deserved every courtesy John could think of for all the kindness she did for them, and for how hurt she would feel when she discovered the true reason for their marriage.

John looked at it for another moment before glancing down at the ring on his hand. It amazed him how quickly he had become accustomed to its weight, before starting to giggle and snort softly to himself, the insanity of his life occurring to him yet again. He really was insane. John wondered if it was something about Baker Street itself that pushed mostly normal people around the bend or if it was spending time around Sherlock. Or maybe he and Mrs. Hudson had been slightly crazy before meeting Sherlock and coming to Baker Street just made it more obvious.

“Hmm…, Should I be worried to come home and find my husband laughing to himself?” a gravelly voice queried from behind him, causing John to start slightly and turn to see Sherlock striding into the room, the typically dramatic motions Sherlock made just taking off his coat causing John to laugh harder. It was ridiculous how easily the man could improve his mood just by walking in the room. Sherlock frowned at him before asking, “John? Are you feeling alright?”

“Fine...” John answered gasping for breath. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Just laughing at the wonderfully insane things that have happened in my life.”

Sherlock frowned, obviously slightly confused by John’s behavior, before deciding it was unimportant and shrugging it off. “I see Mrs. Hudson has been by,” Sherlock commented, nodding at the photo on the mantelpiece. “It’s an appropriate set dressing, I should have thought of it myself.”

John snorted in amusement at this. “Sherlock, I’m sure anyone who has met you would never expect you to do something as sentimental as putting up a picture of your marriage ceremony. I think people would find it more out of character for you to have thought of it. Anyone who sees this will blame either me or Mrs. Hudson for putting it up,” John finished, bringing his laughter under control. “I hope you managed to find something out today. And speaking of information, fifty text messages, Sherlock? Really? You do realize you were disrupting my work more than a little,” John scolded lightly, realizing that he had absolutely no chance of being taken seriously.

Sherlock sighed, “John, don’t be ridiculous. You just had cold and flu patients today, mostly children judging by the mucus on your sleeves. My texts certainly didn’t interfere with your ability to treat such routine cases. Additionally, you should be more precise in your word choice, it was only forty six texts.”

John gave a long-suffering sigh, pulling some leftovers from fridge to reheat. “Sherlock, you know that wasn’t the point I was making. Forty six texts in the six hours I was at the surgery is a excessive, especially when most of them didn’t even make sense.”

“Of course they made sense, don’t be dim. That was data relevant to the case.”

“I don’t see how they could be relevant,” John said, frowning, and inspecting the microwave carefully for experiments or leftover experimental debris, before putting his meal in to reheat. “Most of your texts seemed to be about lack of new information more than anything.”

“Yes, John, don’t you see? That’s the point!” Sherlock cried exultantly. “None of these people have any idea what happened. It’s all theories and supposition. No real data. This case is absolutely captivating.”

John didn’t even bother to roll his eyes at this comment; he had known Sherlock for too long to be bothered by his enjoyment in a difficult case. “Okay, so no new information then.”

“No, John, you’re missing the point,” Sherlock said, sounding frustrated. “None of these couples were indicating to anyone in their lives that they were thinking about leaving, and no one actually saw the point at which they departed. Clearly whoever is taking the couples is highly organized and very good at creating false trails.”

“Okay. So how does this get us any closer to the kidnapper?”

Sherlock paused momentarily. “It doesn’t, not directly. However it has allowed me to remove several lines of inquiry and focus my efforts slightly.”

John nodded acknowledgement of Sherlock’s answer while he settled at the sitting room table with his leftovers. “Got that information you requested,” John said, tapping a finger on the pile he had placed on the table earlier. “Hope it’s useful because you owe me for the hour and a half it took to get out of there.”

Sherlock made a soft humming noise, but didn’t really answer, digging into the tower of paper John had brought home, rapidly sorting through the information and putting it into what appeared to John to be random stacks. He was sure the organization made sense to the consulting genius, but he couldn’t see it. John just watched as he ate his dinner, the sight of Sherlock happy and busy relaxing him. John had missed this when he thought Sherlock had died, and he was determined to enjoy it to the fullest every time he got to witness it. John was sure it couldn’t be a good sign for his mental health that seeing his friend excited about hunting a murdering serial kidnapper was comforting to him, but he just sat there soaking up the energy and feeling content.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Several hours later, John was following Sherlock into a tightly packed nightclub. “Alright, Sherlock, so what are we looking for here tonight?” John asked, scanning the crowd which was mostly made up of young upper middle class couples in their twenties and very early thirties, moving to a pounding and moderately fast bass beat. He felt like an old man in this place. John looked down at his slacks and the red button up shirt he had decided on and grimaced to himself. The grimace grew a little worse looking at the beanpole in front of him. Sherlock seemed to blend right in, his typical outfit looking just like the successful couples around them. It didn’t help his comfort level that he hadn’t been much of a clubber even in his university days, not to mention his lack of rhythm on the dance floor.

As John watched, Sherlock turned a slow circle, seeming to take in the entire building before finishing the turn facing John, looking him over quickly before smiling and addressing the unvoiced concern. “Don’t worry so much, John, you look just the way I want you to.”

John huffed. “Sure, I look like a middle aged frump with his young husband.”

“John, your word choice is atrocious. A frump is typically a woman who is dull, plain, and unattractive or poorly dressed. You are assuredly not a woman and you are not plain. You look like a doting husband who is humoring his younger spouse. In fact, if I had gone with my original plan to purchase you fancier clothes for the nightclub, you would have attracted entirely too much attention, and we never would have learned anything. Women would have been all over you trying to attract your attention.”

John’s jaw dropped at this sideways compliment, “Umm… Thanks, I think.”

Sherlock just looked at him, slightly confused. “For what? I was just stating the obvious. All those women you were dating originally considered you excellent husband material. People are drawn to you for your quiet strength and good humor. Surely you know this is why all those women went out with you? If you had chosen to be more actively involved in any of your relationships with them, they likely would have chosen you to be their life partner,” Sherlock stated in the same voice he used to deduce facts about crime scenes. John just stared, his mind blank.

“What? Did I say something offensive?” Sherlock asked, looking concerned. “I was attempting to be complimentary to settle your nerves so we could continue with this evening's work.”

“No… No, Sherlock. It’s fine.” John said putting a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s arm. “I was just surprised. That’s one of the nicest things anyone has said about me,” John said, smiling before remembering his original question. “So, are we are going to get to work or stand around flattering my admittedly excellent self?” John teased.

Sherlock smiled. “Work of course, husband mine. Now the goal tonight is to get information from the bartenders and wait staff,” Sherlock said, taking John’s elbow and swinging him around to face the dance floor. “The fourth, fifth, and sixth couples all went out to nightclubs approximately three times monthly covering eight separate facilities. Two of those clubs, one of which we are currently standing in, were attended by two of the three couples. More interesting is that five of those clubs are owned by the same management company.”

John frowned slightly, trying to follow this information to some kind of logical conclusion. “So… What, you think one of the waiters or bartenders is using this place to find the victims?”

“Possibly. There must at least be some connection between nightclubs owned by this particular management company. Too many of the couples have been associated with this company’s nightclubs for the kidnapper not to have discovered them here. So the plan for tonight is to try and gather how, and if, staff is rotated between clubs,” Sherlock replied.

“Alright. Then in that case, I believe drinks are the first order of business,” John said, straightening his shoulders to lead the way around the edge of the dance floor to the bar.

The bar was only mildly busy as most of the action appeared to be on the packed dance floor and at the tables surrounding the edge of the dance floor, where waitresses and waiters moved around the crowd. John took a seat on one of the bar stools, Sherlock crowding into his back as he watched the bartender. “Relax, Sherlock. If you look too tense the bartender will think you are up to something and not give you the information you need.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but as John watched, Sherlock forced himself to loosen up and a masked slipped on over his face when the bartender came down to serve them.

“What can I get you?” the young man asked.

“Umm… A Guinness and a tonic water please,” John answered, figuring that Sherlock likely wouldn’t want to dim his senses with alcohol on a case, he had noticed that Sherlock had not gotten a drink last night at the pub, not to mention he wasn’t sure if alcohol was one of Sherlock’s addictions. That was one of those things they didn’t talk about, but John had never seen Sherlock actually drink alcohol, and he wasn’t about to get into that conversation now.

“Tonic water, John?” Sherlock inquired into John’s ear, his voice sending a small shiver of electricity down his spine. “You could have ordered something alcoholic for me. I wouldn’t actually have to drink it.”

“Well this way you can actually be drinking something, and it’s not like the bartender even batted an eye. I am sure there are more than a few recovering alcoholics and designated drivers in the crowd who are covering. Pretend it’s a vodka tonic,” John answered.

“Here you gents go,” the bartender interrupted, “anything else you two need?”

“Yeah actually, you got a minute to answer a few questions? I haven’t ever been here before,” John asked, sliding the money to pay for the drinks across the bar, not wanting to waste such a perfect opening.

“Sure, if it’s short.”

John could feel Sherlock moving closer, tuning into John’s conversation even as Sherlock turned to watch the dancing crowd. “I was wondering about the band. A friend said they saw them at a different club, and they were surprised when my husband told them that we were coming here tonight and we were going to see them,” John said, taking advantage of the flow of the conversation to drop in that Sherlock was his to ward off any ideas the bartender might have about the consulting detective. The man wasn’t actually eyeing Sherlock up but he had looked at him more closely than John decided was acceptable tonight.

“Oh yeah. Good aren’t they,” the bartender said. “They actually have a contract with the management to rotate between three of their nightclubs. They just moved over here this week, they’ve been playing at one of the other clubs for the last month.”

“That’s great. Do they do that a lot? Shuffle groups between the clubs?” John replied, noticing Sherlock lean a little closer to him, and suspecting that he wanted John to get more information.

“Oh yeah,” the man replied. “Bands, DJs, even bartenders, and wait staff. It’s some kind of new age management technique. Apparently it’s supposed to keep us from getting in a rut in our jobs. Moving the bands and DJs between the clubs also keeps the customers interested, and trying out different places.”

“Oh… But what if someone prefers one of the bands or DJs over the others?” John asked. “Wouldn’t that just upset your clients?”

The bartender laughed. “You really haven’t been to this place before. Here,” he said, handing John a business card with a website listing and a logo that John didn’t recognize. “All the clubs this company owns have websites that are linked to each other, mate. Go to that webpage, create your own account, and you can get e-mail updates on any of the bands, even on your favorite bartenders.” The bartender smiled and winked at John before adding, “My name’s on the back. If you create an account there will be a few questions including one asking who gave you the card. If you don’t mind entering my name, I would appreciate it, we get bonuses for every one we get to create an account.”

“No problem,” John said, slipping the card into his pocket. He was taking a sip of his Guinness when Sherlock suddenly snaked an arm around his waist, causing John to choke a little.

“Johnnnnnnn...,” Sherlock whined seductively in his ear. Dammit, John thought, a whine should not be seductive, as Sherlock continued, “Bored. If you are done with your dull conversation, can we dance now please?”

“Umm…sure,” John answered after he caught his breath. “Thanks for the info. Keep the change, a tip for answering questions.”

The bartender smiled at them. “Thanks. You better take your husband off to the dance floor before he drags you out there,” the bartender quipped, moving down the bar to help other costumers.

Sherlock started walking John towards the dance floor, his arm around John’s waist, his body leaned right into John’s back all the while muttering in his ear, “Interesting. So not only do the clubs share a management company, the workers and acts rotate between the clubs.”

“Sherlock?  What was with the whiny two year old act?”

“You were asking a lot of questions. If we don’t want you to be remembered for the questions, you needed to be remembered for something else. A husband humoring his demanding spouse by taking him dancing seemed a viable option.”

“Sherlock.” John said, a little desperately. “I don’t really enjoy dancing, I just kind of sway with the beat and I can’t imagine I can keep up with you. How about you dance and I just look around a bit?”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks on the edge of the dance floor, swinging around to face John, peering at him intently. “I’m sure you will do just fine. It’s important to our cover story that we dance together, particularly with my display a moment ago. Additionally, I need you to observe the crowd closely. Try to remember everything you see, very occasionally you notice small details I don’t and something here is attracting this man.”

John shifted his weight nervously. “Fine, but no comments on my dancing, I tend to look like a short monkey whose strings have been cut.”

Sherlock frowned at him before adding, “I’m certain I can keep any comments about your dancing to myself but I’m sure your dance moves will be acceptable,” Sherlock said, a small smile teasing at the corner of his mouth, before he started backing onto the dance floor, one of his hands reaching out to take John’s, leading him onto the floor with him. Sherlock’s upper body started to sway seductively with the rhythm of the music, his feet moving in a deceptively simple step pattern. John just stared in shock, although he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the man could move so gracefully. “John, you could at least try to move.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” John said, stepping out on to the dance floor, swaying his body from side to side, feeling foolish and self-conscious while Sherlock continued to dance, quickly attracting a crowd. John would have been relieved to have others introduce themselves and join in the dancing if John wasn’t so busy worrying about everyone who was watching Sherlock. The man was like a lodestone, attracting attention from both women and men in the crowd. Since Sherlock wasn’t speaking much while he danced, his usual sardonic words weren’t driving away the crowd. In fact, John thought, Sherlock may have been trying to attract the attention. John was kept busy talking to the people who came near them, trying to remember as much about them as possible, trying to ward off questions from the people who recognized Sherlock’s name from the papers, sometimes having to resort to pointing out that they were trying to enjoy their honeymoon to get people to back off. It was difficult to pay attention though, John’s focus kept getting dragged back to focus on Sherlock moving on the dance floor, John had never thought about it, but if he ever had, he should have realized someone with Sherlock’s musical gifts would be an excellent dancer.

Eventually John decided he needed a break or he might lose control and either punch one of the men (or women) staring at Sherlock or worse, grab the back of Sherlock’s neck and drag that gorgeous mouth down for a kiss so they would realize who Sherlock belonged to and back off. As it was, John made a point of introducing them as married to anyone who didn’t recognize them. It kept most of the people from making too many moves on Sherlock, and if the kidnapper was looking for couples it cemented their story.

“Sherlock,” John said, straining to stand up tall enough to talk into his ear over the loud music. “I need a breather. I’m going to get a drink. Do you want something?”

Sherlock’s arm came around John’s waist again, causing John to lose his balance and fall forward heavily, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt. “Careful,” Sherlock said, a laugh in his voice, catching John and helping him regain his balance. “I’m fine. I’ll meet you at the table,” Sherlock finished, nodding his head to indicate an empty table at the far edge of the dance floor, away from the crowds up by the band. John nodded and Sherlock’s grip on him loosened and his arms slid off his waist as John turned to head to the bar. John was stopped suddenly when Sherlock grabbed his left hand, making John turn and look at him curiously.

Sherlock smiled. “Just wanted to tell you to hurry back, husband,” Sherlock said, raising John’s hand to his face and kissed the top of John’s ring again. John heard the women in the group around them sigh and even a few catcalls, as his heartbeat sped up and he forced himself to nod bemusedly and walk away, hoping that his emotions weren’t written across his face.

John got lucky when he arrived at the bar and was able to find an open space to get the bartender’s attention and ordered drinks for both of them. Sherlock couldn’t have had more than a sip or two of his tonic water before and given how much energy the man had put into dancing, John didn’t want him getting dehydrated. He turned to look at the crowd again, waiting restlessly for the drinks. John frowned, noticing a woman, a beautiful woman a part of him whispered, lean into Sherlock’s space and place a hand on his arm, halting the detective’s slow progress through the crowd towards the table he had indicated to John. Sherlock turned to look at the woman and John saw irritation cross his face. It was subtle and the woman didn’t notice it, she seemed focused on asking Sherlock a question. Sherlock wore the same fake smile he used for interviewing suspects and leaned toward the women, speaking quickly, his left hand came up while the right forefinger pointed at his ring. The woman’s hand came up and flashed across Sherlock’s face before she turned and stalked off. John had to force himself to stay where he was, his left hand curled into a fist. He was sure the woman had been given an extremely cutting brush off but she was coming on to his Sherlock, had slapped his Sherlock. John took a deep breath, calming himself, watching Sherlock finally reach the table and settle, and begin examining the crowd before John made himself turn back to the bar.

“Your husband is quite the dancer,” the bartender offered, the same one who had served them earlier. “And he obviously adores you,” the man said, nodding towards the area where Sherlock was sitting.

“Hmm?” John replied, not really paying attention as he dug through his wallet to pay for the drinks and took deep breaths, continuing to try and let his irritation at all the people eyeing up Sherlock slide away.

The bartender laughed. “You’re more obvious than he is. Your eyes track him almost constantly and you watch for interlopers on your turf, but he’s obviously showing off for you. His whole dance style changed the few times your attention was called away.” John smiled uncertainly at the bartender as he paid for their drinks and turned to join Sherlock. If the bartender thought Sherlock had feelings for him, Sherlock had managed to fool him and he would be thrilled that he was playing his part so believably. He just hoped Sherlock would put John’s behavior down to his attempt to contribute to part of their cover.

“Drink,” John said, placing the tonic water in front of Sherlock, and taking a seat beside him at the table. “Doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock frowned at the drink, before rolling his eyes at John and taking a quick mouthful out of the glass. “Happy?”

“Getting there. I’ll be thrilled when you finish the entire glass,” John teased, before asking seriously, “So, learn anything? Other than some women dislike being brushed off?”

Sherlock smirked. “Really, if people would only observe simple things, interactions would be much easier. As far as the case is concerned I have not acquired much additional data,” Sherlock replied, obviously frustrated. “These people all appear to be average, ordinary. Other than the workers who are shuffled between the clubs there are no apparent linkages. Although of course, any of the individuals attending this club could be attending the others.”

“Well then, I suppose the next step is to investigate the employees, right?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, frowning thoughtfully.

John let him sit thinking for a few moments, enjoying his drink watching Sherlock’s frown deepen. “Out with it. What’s bothering you?” John asked finally.

“I’m missing something, I’m sure. But I cannot even tell yet in what direction to focus in order to find what I’m missing,” Sherlock answered in irritation, running a hand through his dark curls.

John smiled at the picture he created. “We haven’t checked out all of the places the missing couples frequented yet, I’m certain the answer will present itself. Do you want to head home? I can’t imagine you can sort out all the information in this noise, much less use your mind palace effectively,” John offered.

“Shortly,” he replied, smiling softly, before turning to look at the crowd.

John shrugged, settling back in his chair to enjoy his drink and the band, which was really quite good, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock took absentminded sips of the tonic water in his hand. John kept an eye on the crowd dancing, waved off waiters who stopped by offering to get more drinks, and felt himself gradually relaxing. They had sat there for more than a half an hour when John realized it was after one in the morning. He was about to ask Sherlock again about leaving, when the band announced they were going to play a few slow songs for the couples in the crowd.

Sherlock stood suddenly and put his hand out towards John. “Perfect. Let’s head up close to the band.”

“Umm…alright,” John responded, noting that he wasn’t using complete sentences or even a ton of words around Sherlock tonight. They moved up the edge of the dance floor towards the band, John following along behind Sherlock. As they reached the front of the dance floor, Sherlock paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping the crowd and the band.

Sherlock turned and faced John for a moment before holding out a hand to ask, “Ready, John?” John nodded, as he always did when Sherlock asked him to do something dangerous, and he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock smiled and pulled on the hand until John stepped forward into the other man’s space. Sherlock’s other hand took up residence on his hip, and he pulled John’s arm up towards his neck. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock in question, even while following the unvoiced command and bringing his other arm up, so that he had both arms on Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock’s hands on his waist. “Needs must, John,” Sherlock murmured, his head jerking to indicate the other couples dancing in the crowds.

John just nodded and followed Sherlock’s lead as he danced them onto the floor. John initially felt a little off balance to be in the position of following someone else’s lead, but after a few short moments, it became natural, as did all the odd things that happened around Sherlock. After John relaxed and got better at following Sherlock he found his eyes closing, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on his waist, and the feel of the other man’s body heat, Sherlock’s scent in his nostrils.

The sensations produced a warm glow of contentment that flowed through his body, fortunately with only a tiny touch of arousal, not enough to give him away but certainly enough that he had to force himself to recall that this wasn’t real, that he mustn’t lean too far into Sherlock’s embrace. Sherlock wasn’t his; they were dancing like this for a case, not because Sherlock loved him. John’s body didn’t care and he carefully tried to record every moment of closeness, every touch. He really should get Sherlock to teach him that mind palace trick, John thought somewhat muzzily. After two slow songs the music sped up again, and Sherlock’s hands dropped from his waist, causing John to quickly step back and look around.

“Get what you need?” John asked when Sherlock slowly turned to walk off the dance floor again.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I think it helped illuminate a few small details. In fact, I believe I have collected all the information I need for this evening. Home?”

“Sounds good to me,” John answered, trailing behind Sherlock out of the nightclub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: Again I have been really flattered by all the wonderful people who are taking the time to review. I love hearing all your thoughts and comments. I also want to thank all the people who have kudo, commented, bookmarked and subscribed to this story I consider it an honor.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who are hanging in there with me and this story. I really want to thank everyone for all there encouragement and understanding as write this story.
> 
> Dragonhawkerz has created a lovely art of the nightclub scene in this chapter. You can find it at:
> 
> http://oddthesungod.tumblr.com/post/28317657869/small-fanart-of-a-sherlock-fanfic-i-was-reading
> 
>  
> 
> I love constructive criticism, so please review.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	6. Data Mining, Exposés, and Donations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter (Thank you Ivory the Amazing) All mistakes are mine.
> 
> 5/12/2013 Repost Spelling and Grammar Corrections

John was only slightly surprised when he finally rolled himself out of bed the next morning at the unreasonable hour of 8 am, groaning at the short night of sleep but desperate for a cup of tea, to find Sherlock absent from the flat. Sherlock hadn’t spoken much when they had finally arrived back at the flat last night, changing quickly into his pajamas and robe before dropping into his thinking pose on the couch. He hadn’t even responded when John had called goodnight softly before going upstairs and crawling into bed. John was getting his breakfast ready when he heard his mobile chime from the mantel with a message.

**Create account and get last three and next three performance dates and sites for each band or DJ. Need same data for all bartenders. -SH**

**Husband, not PA - JW**

John smiled widely while texting his reply, even as opened his laptop to log on and he finished his breakfast preparations. Might as well use the word while he had the excuse to, John thought to himself, digging through the pile on the desk to try and find the bartender’s card. He knew he had taken it out of his pocket last night to add to the case notes. John grumbled to himself, his searching turning up nothing; he should have known better than to add it to Sherlock’s case notes. The man never kept anything in any type of organization scheme that was logical to anyone besides himself.

**Card is on case wall. – SH**

**Mind reading again, are we? – JW**

**Obvious. You didn’t look at the card long enough to remember the website. Additionally you promised bartender that you would make sure he got credit for introducing you to the website. –SH**

John sighed, getting up and going to the wall. He noticed that Sherlock didn’t say anything about his assumption that John would log onto the site and get the information, which had been rather rudely requested. He really needed to work on his Sherlock training again; he was allowing him to get away with too much lately. John munched on his breakfast, one and two finger typing his way into creating an account and answering the site’s questions so he could get the required information. It took more than an hour due to the large number of bands and DJs that rotated through the numerous clubs quite frequently, as well as the large number of bartenders. Along with the current groups and people that worked for the clubs, John noted a listing of older bands which were not going to be playing in the near future, and a section of retired bartenders. Apparently if a bartender was extremely popular but went on to bigger and better things, they got a temporary profile page honoring them. The pages were probably an effort to prevent people from peppering the management company with questions, but for John it was more information that needed to be transcribed for the irritating detective.

In an effort to prevent having to do this again, John got the last five previous venues and all of the future ones listed for each group, instead of just the three Sherlock requested. He was sure Sherlock had a reason for wanting only three, but it sometimes prevented John from having to do things over again if he provided extra information. John didn’t envy whatever tech geek had to keep this website up to date and working properly. It was going to be a gold mine of hopefully useful data for Sherlock, but given all the employee and entertainer movement between the management companies clubs the website must be a bear to keep current and accurate, John mused.

 **“** Ah. John, excellent,” Sherlock proclaimed, appearing behind him just as John finished gathering the information. Sherlock leaned over the back of the chair, one hand resting on John’s shoulder and the other hand reaching around for the stack of papers. “Hmmm… that is more then I requested. Possibly useful,” Sherlock said, the thumb of the hand on his shoulder beginning to making small brushing motions across the nape of his neck as Sherlock started falling into deep thought. John’s eyes closed, soaking up the absentminded gesture, enjoying the warmth and intimacy the small motion created. After a few moments John stood up, moving away, in what he hoped was a natural movement, knowing that if he let Sherlock’s caress go on too long he might betray himself.

“So what were you up to this morning?” John asked, wandering back into the kitchen to put the kettle on again for another cup of tea.

“Researching details. I was endeavoring to ascertain more evidence about possible locations from which Mr. Williams’s daughter and son-in-law might have been kidnapped.”

“Any luck?”

“John, you of all people should know that my deductions have nothing to do with luck,” Sherlock snorted back in reply before continuing, “in fact I have determined that the most likely place to be taken from was their own home. I suspect that the kidnapper was waiting for Joanna, Williams’ daughter, to arrive home as usual. The kidnapper likely subdued her, and then tied her in a visible location that she could be easily threatened in, forcing Garth into submission when he arrived home. From there the kidnapper could easily have used threats against either spouse to convince them to go along with whatever was demanded.”

John nodded sadly; he could easily envision the scenario that Sherlock described. It would work very well against those untrained in self-defense, and against many who were. John finished making the tea and poured himself and Sherlock a cuppa before moving back into the sitting room. He handed a cup to Sherlock who was busily tacking additional information to the case wall, the smiley face now almost entirely buried, when a thought occurred to John. “Sherlock, didn’t you tell me that one of the things that all the couples had in common was that they were estranged from their families?”

“Yes.”

John frowned, questioning, “Mr. Williams doesn’t seem to fit that profile. I mean he seemed to know a lot about the day-to-day details of his daughter’s life, and he obviously approved of her husband Garth. You could hear it in his voice.”

“Yes, it’s an anomaly,” Sherlock answered. “I think the reason the kidnapper missed the contact is that it was very old fashioned.”

“How do you mean?” John probed when Sherlock didn’t elaborate. “They used smoke signals or something?”

John saw a half smile raise the corner of Sherlock’s mouth at John’s weak joke, before Sherlock replied, “They used the post, amazing in this day and age, but Mr. Williams has a lifelong love of old fashioned letter writing, something he passed onto his daughter. So instead of phoning, texting, or e-mailing they exchanged detailed twice weekly letters. I think the kidnapper missed this because he wasn’t looking for it. Who writes letters in this day and age? Fortunately this idiosyncrasy is working to our advantage because I think the kidnapper still doesn’t know about the contact and doesn’t realize that Mr. Williams is pushing harder than any of the previous families for answers because he was close to his daughter.”

“Alright so that gets us up on him how?”

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. “Think, John. Most of those couples were likely missing several days before anyone really looked for them, and many of the trails had gone so cold that ruling out multiple possibilities was difficult due to conflicting information. In this case, the police were contacted directly and although their conclusions were erroneous, the data they used to form their conclusions is highly useful.”

“Alright. So how close are we to actually finding him?”

“Unknown, but certainly closer than if Mr. Williams had not contacted us as soon as he did.”

“So what’s the next step? Are we going to check out another club tonight?” John asked.

“Undecided,” Sherlock said, turning suddenly away from his case wall to stride quickly across to John, pulling three small business cards out of his pocket. “Here, we need more data.”

John took the offered cards, noticing that all three were quite dirty, dog-eared, and one had an unidentified sticky substance on it. John quickly shuffled through the cards and he realized they all appeared to be for different London nightclubs. “Are we going to all these places? And what did you do to these cards?”

“Those are the other three nightclubs the couples had graced with their presence, each of which has a different management company,” Sherlock replied, “we may need to visit one or more of these clubs, but given how useful the other clubs’ websites have become, I thought we would attempt to gather more data on them prior to choosing which, if any, of the clubs to attend. I gathered the cards from the ground outside each of the clubs this morning. It’s amazing the information that can be gathered from what people leave behind.”

Hand sanitizer, must remember to restock on hand sanitizer, John thought, pulling a half empty bottle from one of the desk drawers, the doctor part of his brain considering all the various bacteria that could be on the cards. These cards probably weren’t as dangerous as Afghanistan, but why take extra risks? “Alright, so you want the same material as the other clubs? Work schedule on the DJs and bands?” John asked. “And here, use this on your hands. You could probably do your consulting without your hands, but I doubt you would survive without the ability to play your violin if you somehow got MRSA and gangrene from those cards,” John ordered, handing Sherlock the hand sanitizer.

Sherlock groaned under his breath, obviously disdaining John’s concerns, before taking the bottle, apparently deciding to concede this point in favor of getting John to gather data for him. “Fine. Now create those accounts, it’s hard to deduce without evidence.”

John sighed. “You do realize it took me over an hour to get what you are holding?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John could hear the unvoiced thought asking why it mattered how long it took when it was vital to the Work. “It’s considered polite to use the words’ please’ and ‘thank you’ when asking a person’s friends, not to mention their spouse, for long dull favors.”

Sherlock just continued to look at him, his eyebrow still raised, causing John to exhale noisily. “Fine, I’ll just add this to the tally of favors you owe me. You might want to watch out, one of these days I might come to collect on them, might even ask you to serenade me to sleep some night with lullabies,” John teased, settling back into the chair in front of the laptop with the business cards.

Sherlock just smiled in response, turning back to the case wall, another slab of post it notes in his hands and dropping a pile of papers on the couch as he continued collating data. John spent the next hour logging onto the three separate websites, creating accounts and getting the information Sherlock had demanded, one ear listening to Sherlock’s comments on the case, although once again he found he could only follow a few of them, although he threw out a few comments here or there. Most of the comments were summarily dismissed with a wave of a hand or a roll of the eyes, but one or two got a hum in response or elicited a large flow of information which didn’t always seem related to John’s comment. Well at least to John. He was sure there was an odd link somewhere in Sherlock’s mind palace.

Finally John was mostly finished except for a few pieces of information he didn’t have, for which he had e-mails off to the management companies requesting. He was relieved that the management companies either used the same programs to create their websites or were purposefully mimicking each other. There were large differences between the websites, but there were enough similarities to help a two-finger typist like John navigate his way with relative ease through the maze.

John stretched his back and rolled his stiff shoulders as he stood up and moved over towards Sherlock carrying the new information. “Here is most of what you wanted. I have a few e-mails out there for the rest.”

Sherlock looked at him briefly, taking the small stack of papers from John and nodding before turning back to the case wall.

John smiled at Sherlock’s focus. He figured it was another sign of madness that a large part of him considered Sherlock’s obsession with finding answers to riddles attractive. John decided to break that train of thought and asked, teasingly, “You need me to work on anything right now? If not, I am going to run out to Tesco’s and pick up a few supplies. We are running low on tea and a few other essentials, and I don’t want to give you any excuses to not eat on workout days.”

“Go ahead. I need to finish combining the data we obtained from the nightclub websites, and from adoption application details, to look for more links,” Sherlock answered, continuing to work on his case wall. “The walk should also help work out the kinks in your shoulders and back from the extended time at the computer this morning,” Sherlock finished, never looking away from his work. John smiled fondly, heading up stairs to get ready to head out to the store.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John trudged up the seventeen stairs to their flat carrying several bags of shopping in a considerably darker mood than he had left in an hour ago. Kitty Riley had struck again. He didn’t understand how the woman was still managing to publish stories, even in trash like The Sun, after her big exposé of Sherlock had turned out to be pure garbage provided by Moriarty. The woman’s reputation as an investigative journalist should have been ruined, yet here she was going strong yet again.

John dropped the shopping on a clear spot on the counter and started putting away the groceries, studiously ignoring the copy of The Sun he had purchased that was floating in the bottom of the bag. He especially ignored the photo on the front cover, and definitely ignored the lurid headline - _Resurrected Sleuth Marries Bachelor Flatmate: How long have these two been lying?_

The article had been even worse than the headline. Kitty Riley had somehow managed to find his dating history and attempted to interview most of the women he had dated since he had returned from Afghanistan. This was actually how he had found out about the ridiculous article. Sarah called while John was at Tesco’s to tell him the reporter had appeared at her flat this morning, trying to interview her for a follow up piece. Sarah had refused to comment, and called John to warn him once she had chased Riley off.

John’s only consolation in the whole story was that most of his girlfriends had refused to talk to the blasted reporter, even Jeanette who had been rightly upset with him. But Riley had managed to make the few comments she had gotten sound damning and shameful, like he had been using those women as a beard for his relationship with Sherlock. He noticed that she fortunately hadn’t found Mary, who he had only gone out on a few dates with, and she hadn’t bothered to mention that he hadn’t dated the entire time Sherlock was apparently dead. John couldn’t decide if he was grateful for this or mad, because he wasn’t sure if she could have twisted those details to make John look even worse. Bad enough she accused John of lying, and made him sound like a cowardly prat who took advantage of naive young women most of whom were still besotted with him, at least according to Riley.

The photo was actually the least incriminating part of the story since it had obviously been a last minute addition to the story, only one line in the article referencing the picture. The photo was a shot of them slow dancing, John leaning into Sherlock’s body, but it had obviously been taken from some distance away with a cheap camera phone, and most of the photo was fuzzy and poorly lit. John supposed he should have expected something like this when he realized some of the people dancing with their group had recognized who they were and had become excited. John imagined Sherlock would call him hopelessly naïve, because he never would have done this to anyone, so it hadn’t occurred to him that someone would do it to them. John just hoped that whoever had sold the photo got almost nothing for their trouble, although he suspected the intrepid Ms. Riley had paid a decent amount for it.

After John had finished putting away the groceries, he picked up the newspaper and moved into the sitting room. Sherlock looked up from his thinking position of the couch, and frowned, obviously reading the tension in John’s body language. Before John could say anything, Sherlock asked, “So what has Ms. Riley written about us now?”

“See for yourself,” John said, dropping the article into his flatmate’s lap. Sherlock looked at John for a moment longer before picking it up and quickly reading the article.

“I fail to see why you are so tense. Despite Ms. Riley’s twisting, it will be apparent to all that your previous girlfriends are highly supportive of our marriage, and none of them expressed ill-usage, at least to Ms. Riley. Additionally the photo is barely identifiable as us, much less even remotely risqué. In fact for The Sun it is practically blasé.”

John sighed, dropping into his chair heavily. “It’s not the article so much, or even the picture, although it irritates me that the people at that club last night couldn’t respect our privacy for one night. She bothers me. She published all that trash about you, helped Moriarty back you into a corner, and she doesn’t appear to have suffered any real consequences.” John rubbed his hands across his face. “You had to disappear for seven months, and fight to prove your innocence and Moriarty’s guilt. All she had to do was print a story retracting her first, which actually managed to increase her fame and increase her readership!” John finished, practically yelling.

“All true, and all unimportant.” Sherlock replied. “While I consider her a dismal failure of an investigative journalist, it is not actually her fault that Moriarty succeeded as well as he did in his attempt to trap me. She was just a pawn in his game and he did provide her with convincing data. And in fact, her obsession attempts to use my life to create her headlines does play nicely into our cover story.”

John groaned not lifting his head from his hands. “Fine. Alright, but that doesn’t mean I have to be thrilled that she doesn’t allow me to even pretend we have a modicum of a private life.”

“As you wish,” Sherlock said, “Now if you are done with your crisis, can we get back to the case?”

John looked up from his hands, and sighed but nodded in resignation. “Want me to check for replies to my e-mails or do you need something else? By the way, have you decided which club we are going to tonight?”

“Not yet, I need the rest of the information from the clubs.”

John nodded, settling back in front of his computer and pulling up his e-mail, quickly deleting the buildup of junk e-mail in his inbox before turning his attention to the replies to his questions.  He had received answers to most of them and he read the details out loud to Sherlock, who added the information to either his case notes or to the wall, apparently randomly.  John had just finished updating Sherlock when he noticed a new e-mail arriving from the Center for Support of Childhood Cancer with the subject line ‘Thank you’.  Confused and not recognizing the group, John opened the e-mail wondering if it was some kind of scam.

“£5000! Sherlock! Where are we going to get £5000?” John roared into the quiet of the flat a moment later. “And what possessed you to register us for the round robin tournament? And why didn’t you ask me?”

“We need more information on the original couples’ activities, and my interview with the first victims’ friends yesterday revealed that they had entered several of these charity pub quiz tournaments,” Sherlock answered.

“That still doesn’t explain why you promised them £5000 instead of the £100 entry fee. And of course it doesn’t explain where we are supposed to get the money to pay for this,” John huffed, standing and pacing around the room in agitation. “How do you expect me to explain this to the charity when we don’t have the money we promised!”

“Why wouldn’t we have the funds?” Sherlock asked, for once looking honestly confused at John’s anger, “our accounts should have plenty of money available. I deposited the payments you negotiated from the last three private cases several weeks ago when you were harassing me about it, and my quarterly payment from my trust should have deposited automatically on Friday.  I admit it’s too dull to monitor the finances in the account on a routine basis. I only need enough to pay rent, cabs, groceries etc., and you have not purchased anything extravagant since your name went on the account, so I fail to see why we cannot pay this trifling sum. Additionally, the base level of money in our account has increased significantly both since people have begun paying attention to your rather romanticized blog of our cases, and since you took over negotiating payments starting with that case you refer to by the ridiculous name of The Blind Banker.”

‘Wait, what? Our account? My name is on your account? What are you blathering on about now, Sherlock?” John demanded, becoming increasingly aggravated as his confusion grew.

Sherlock frowned. “Surely you remember I added your name to my accounts shortly after the case with the actor and the crutch? You use my cards all the time to pay the rent, get groceries. Admittedly the accounts were frozen while I was gone since the Yard considered the money profits of an illegal enterprise, and Mycroft felt that if he interfered and made the funds available to you it might be suspicious and put you at risk.”

John dropped into his chair in front of the fireplace, Sherlock’s words beginning to sink into his apparently thick skull. He knew that Sherlock had never mentioned it when John was in the flat, but he did have a vague memory of Mycroft apologizing for being unable to provide access to Sherlock’s assets shortly after the funeral, but John had been too angry to really take in anything Mycroft had said.

“You put me… on your bank accounts,” John murmured softly, almost to himself. “Why?”

“John, we discussed this almost two years ago, surely your memory isn’t that poor. You are my business partner,” Sherlock groused at him. “You help attract clients, something you proved in an infuriating manner during Julie Stoner’s case, and you deal with the vexing things such as negotiating payment and manners. Of course you deserve to profit equally from our cases. Additionally you pay most of my bills for me since you correctly assert that it prevents the bill collectors from sending irritating collection letters and making calls. And of course legally since Wednesday, you are now my civil partner and my finances are yours. Now stop being dull and tell me why there isn’t enough money in the accounts to cover this donation.”

John just sat in his chair, his mouth hanging slightly open, staring at his flatmate. “You put me on your accounts two years ago?” John repeated in a dazed voice.

Sherlock looked at him, irritated. “We just covered this information, John. Did you hit your head? Is that why you have forgotten our previous conversation about this matter?”

John shook his head, and tried to organize his thoughts before answering his mad genius, “Sherlock, sorry, I think you might’ve told me about this when I wasn’t actually in the flat,” John informed him gently, “thank you, it’s a really a kind thing for you to do, you could have just continued to give me part of the payment you received when I assisted in solving a case like you had been.”

Sherlock frowned. “No, I started giving you those payments for your personal use when I realized you were uncomfortable pulling funds from the main accounts for your own expenditures. I thought it would make you more comfortable, but of course you could have accessed the funds at any time. I still don’t understand why you didn’t use them, you have all the PIN numbers.”

John laughed at Sherlock’s confusion. “That’s your money, Sherlock, money you earned as the world’s one and only consulting detective. I wasn’t going to take advantage of your friendship to purchase things I didn’t need, and like I said, I didn’t know you had added me to the accounts.”

“Alright, so why would it be a problem to pay the £5000?” Sherlock asked bringing the conversation back around to the original topic.

“I have no idea, Sherlock. I have never checked the balances on the accounts, I just used your cards to pay your bills when you asked,” John replied, watching Sherlock stride over to the table and flop into the chair in front of John’s computer, typing almost before he was seated.

“Excellent, the accounts currently have a little more than £90,000, we should have plenty for the donation,” Sherlock announced a moment later, John’s mouth dropping open again. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, John knew what Sherlock got for the private cases when the clients were rich and could afford to pay. Of course Sherlock took cases that were interesting from those who could pay nothing and the police, but the private cases obviously made up for it. John also didn’t have a clue what Sherlock would have received from his trust.

“Yeah, it sounds like you have plenty of money for the donation,” John answered before inquiring, “you still haven’t explained why you are donating so much money, not that I am saying it is a bad thing.”

Sherlock gave John a considering look before responding, “I might need additional information from the organizers of the tournament, and large donations tend to open tight lips.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s explanation of the large donation. “It really took £5000 to get the information you required?”

“Unknown at this point, I have not yet actually requested information that is not listed openly on their website. A smaller amount might have worked, but it never hurts to ensure easy access to data. Additionally, I researched the background of the charity and they appeared to be legitimate so I felt you would approve of the donation, not to mention the available tax deductions,” Sherlock huffed out in a self-justifying manner.

John chuckled softly to himself, before taking pity on Sherlock who was apparently feeling a little exposed having been caught doing something for a good cause that might only mildly benefit him. “Sounds like a reasonable plan, Sherlock. So have you decided which club we are going to this evening?”

“Yes, I have decided that we will not be going out today,” Sherlock replied in a slightly relieved tone, obviously delighted at the change in topic. “All those websites have fortuitously provided sufficient data to allow us to continue moving forward with the case, without needing to attend the actual venue. Moreover I am certain Ms. Riley will have eyes at many of the clubs in the city, and she is obviously willing to pay for information on our location and activities, so even if she did not have someone stationed at any club we attended, I am certain she would be notified as soon as someone in the crowd identified us and then she would arrive shortly, which would curtail our ability to investigate.”

John rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to one of the clubs tonight for more information? I suppose we could go in disguise or something?”

“No, as I said, I believe I have accumulated adequate data from the websites to work with at this point. Furthermore, after Ms. Riley’s failed attempt at a scathing exposé, I believe that it would be normal for a new couple to stay out of the public eye. We will be going to meet with our trainer tomorrow morning as planned. I am sure the man has more information. I just need to find the correct way to solicit it,” Sherlock concluded in a slightly frustrated voice, moving away from the computer, picking up his violin and settling back onto the couch.

“I imagine it is just a matter of time. The man is really broken up about his friends still, and it isn’t like people investigating it in the past have given him reason to trust that they would do right by his friends,” John said, trying to encourage him. Sherlock didn’t reply, instead starting to pluck random notes out on the violin, and after a moment John got up to move to the kitchen, stopping to turn and look back at Sherlock and say, “Sherlock. Thanks.”

Sherlock looked up at him, sharply taking in his body language and apparently able to deduce John’s intention to thank him for adding John to his financial accounts. Sherlock nodded once, before turning his gaze back to the ceiling and focusing inwards again as he reviewed the case.  

John moved into the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea after the emotional upheaval of the last hour and trying to comprehend what he had learned. That Sherlock had a decent amount of money in savings and received trust payments wasn’t really a surprise, John took the payments for Sherlock, and the man had no real expenses outside rent, food, clothes, and his experiments. But to put John on his accounts, for a man who claimed to be a sociopath even if said sociopath claimed it was only to make his life easier, it showed an amazing amount of trust. John shook his head as he sipped his tea; he doubted he would ever understand how Sherlock’s mind worked. John smiled to himself, enjoying the faith Sherlock had placed in him as he considered what he might make for dinner that would hopefully tempt his eccentric flatmate to maybe steal a few bites from John’s plate, since Sherlock obviously intended to spend the rest of the day collating information and deducing new lines of inquiry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: Once more I have been really thrilled by all the wonderful people who are taking the time to review and the amazing reviews I have received. I love hearing all your thoughts and comments. I also want to thank all the people who have kudo, bookmarked, and subscribed to this story I consider it a high honor. 
> 
> I love constructive criticism, so please review.
> 
> My last note is a huge thank you to my Beta Ivory Winter. Without Ivory this story would not be nearly as good.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	7. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, the grammar goddess, All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 7 Tension

The rest of Saturday would have been extremely trying for John if he wasn’t still reeling from the knowledge of the trust Sherlock had shown him by adding John to his financial accounts. Judging by Sherlock’s violin playing, or rather meditative strumming, his flatmate was deeply withdrawn into himself, either unable to draw any conclusion, or perhaps drawing far too many, from the information they had gathered. If Sherlock had not been on a case that he obviously found fascinating, John would have been worried about his behavior and wondering if this would be a danger night. As it was, John just considered himself lucky that the case, at least thus far, didn’t require any experiments that would end up damaging the flat thus increasing their rent, (although apparently the detective the funds to cover it), or to use John as a test subject for dangerous hallucinogens.

John tried to entertain himself for a while by watching another Bond flick with the subtitles on, something he had long since had adjusted to using, having learned that the discordant violin playing would only get worse and last longer if Sherlock was distracted or irritated by what he considered excessive noise. That wasn’t to say if Sherlock was playing while they weren’t on a case that John wouldn’t turn on the volume even if Sherlock disliked the movie or TV show; John wasn’t a doormat after all.  John gave up on the flick after a while though, Bond movies just weren’t the same when you couldn’t hear all the explosions, and continued working on a blog post about their recent case involving a missing race horse, a non-barking watchdog, and a murdered horse trainer.  He still needed to come up with a final title, The Silver Blaze just wasn’t working for him.

After eating dinner, which John had been unsuccessful in tempting Sherlock to even taste or in fact even respond to his attempts, John settled in his chair to peruse one of the new forensic pathology journals. John always had to rush to read them before Sherlock got a hold of them and marked the journal up with critical notes across the margins and sometimes directly on top of the articles themselves. Since Sherlock’s return John had started using some of his disposable income to try and refresh his memory on the forensic pathology basics he had learned in med school and read up on some of the more recent research to try and make himself more useful to Sherlock in the field. John was by no means a trained pathologist, or even a criminologist, but he had successfully managed to improve his diagnostic abilities during cases and most of the research articles were absolutely fascinating. Tonight he entertained and enlightened himself with an intriguing article by Dr. William Bass from the Knoxville, Tennessee Body Farm about detecting decomposition in air samples in the trunk of a car after the body had been removed by criminals multiple weeks prior.

John finally decided around eleven that if he was going to have to run the next day with Jeremy the trainer, he needed a decent night sleep. “Sherlock,” John called, unsurprised when there was no response as the man hadn’t spoken in several hours and was obviously deep in thought about the case. “Sherlock. Sherlock!” John barked at the third repetition, prodding the bottom of the consulting detective’s foot.

“What!” The detective finally snapped in reply, throwing John a dark glare.

“I am heading up for the night, you might want to consider getting a least a few hours sleep.  Jeremy is likely going to put us through the ringer a bit tomorrow. Some sleep might prevent me from needing to scrape your scrawny arse up off the ground,” John replied, his tone dropping into his captain’s voice without him noticing. “You have been sleeping at least a little, right Sherlock?”

“John, you are my husband not my mother.”

“Yeah and as your husband, not to mention the flatmate who is going to have to take care of you if you make yourself sick, I will ask again. When was the last time you slept?” John retorted almost before Sherlock finished his verbal attempt to deflect him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and made a deep grumpy sigh, before finally responding, “I have been sleeping four to six hours nightly since Tuesday evening when I informed you of our pending civil partnership ceremony. I was aware that the case would last an extended period of time, consequently I had already planned to ensure that I could have at least four complete sleep cycles a night. It would hardly help my ability to solve the case if I damaged my brain by depriving it of necessary sleep. Satisfied?” Sherlock finished sharply, clearly annoyed at having to justify himself.

“Yes,” John answered honestly, impressed that Sherlock was taking good care of himself on this case. Although admittedly John supposed that Sherlock was being logical about his health, for once. It occurred to John that the consulting genius hadn’t had a case that was easily going to last several weeks since they had started working together, so he supposed he should have expected slightly different habits. “As your husband and doctor, I must admit that it is a huge concern off my mind. I’ll let you get back to your meditation. Breakfast at eight, Sherlock, since we are meeting Jeremy at nine am at the Y.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand at John as he stood up and started puttering in front of his case wall, as John trotted upstairs to bed.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Sherlock was grumbling the next morning even before they had arrived at the YMCA on Tottenham. He had eaten the breakfast John had placed in front of him, but Sherlock had been muttering all morning about lack of connections and irrelevant data. The case wall was now covered in push pins, which had different colored strands of thread running between the pins.  John didn’t have a clue what connections the threads were supposed to indicate, but the sheer number of different colors made John think that Sherlock was still looking for that vital link.  John could only hope the eccentric genius hadn’t pilfered the thread unasked from Mrs. Hudson for his case wall. Their landlady enjoyed watching Sherlock on a good case as much as John but it bothered her when the detective nicked stuff from her flat without asking.

John was more than a little worried that the irritated genius might be upset enough to just try cornering Jeremy Walsh and demanding the information he wanted rather than being subtle about it and thus blow their cover. He shouldn’t have worried. As they moved out of the changing room towards Jeremy it was as if a different Sherlock suddenly existed. The tension left the line of his shoulders, the snappy looking frown lines on his forehead smoothed out, and Sherlock even walked differently.

“Good morning Jeremy,” Sherlock said, shaking the trainer’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

John nodded at Jeremy and shook his hand but didn’t add anything to the greeting as he was busy trying to keep his irritation with the temperamental detective from causing him to bark at him in public while they were out on a case.

“I would like to say the same to you gentlemen, but instead I find I would rather beat the two of you into the pavement,” Jeremy replied in a dangerously calm tone, causing John to sharpen his focus on the man and the surrounding environment, fighting down the need to step between Sherlock and the man who had just defined himself as a threat. “I would’ve appreciated you telling me that you are investigating the disappearance of my friends,” Jeremy bit out in frigid tone.

“And what led you to reach this conclusion?” Sherlock inquired before John could get his mouth open to deny the accusation.

“I have to admit that it took me a while but once I calmed down it was easy to see that you had been pushing me for information when you were here on Thursday. A famous detective and his husband join a club, and request a trainer who just happens to have been friends with a couple that disappeared. Then when they show up for their first training run, the detective conveniently brings a supposedly random getting-to-know-you conversation around to my friends who have disappeared, one of whom is under suspicion for murder. Really wasn’t all that difficult of a conclusion to make,” Jeremy finished in an irritated voice.

Sherlock looked at the man for a long moment while John shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot all the while, keeping a close eye on Jeremy to make sure the man wasn’t going to become more aggressive. Sherlock finally responded, “You are correct. I am looking into your friends’ disappearance.”

“And why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“I believed that I could receive more accurate and complete information if you did not know I was researching your friends’ case. Additionally I feared that you would might mention my interest in the case to other people and thus possibly tip off the real criminal,” Sherlock expounded, giving the trainer a hard look.

“You honestly thought I would lie if I knew you were researching their disappearance?” Jeremy asked, sounding offended.

“Perhaps not intentionally, but it is not uncommon for people to conceal information they consider damaging from investigators,” Sherlock answered, continuing to watch the trainer closely.

Jeremy stood there just staring at the both of them, obviously trying to decide how to take that statement, when John stepped in. “Sherlock doesn’t mean that as an accusation, Mr. Walsh. He is just stating a fact. Many people try, rightly or wrongly, to cover up details of their or their friends’ lives when they are being investigated by the police because they worry that those details will make the wrong person look guilty. Sherlock solves cases using tiny details, so getting accurate information is highly important to him, especially in a case as cold as your friends’,” John finished, trying to calm the man down so that the trainer might listen to reason.

Jeremy turned his glare at John, before actually taking in his words and nodding abruptly. “So what do you need to know?”

“I know that you weren’t having an affair with either Pamela or Derek, but are you aware if either of them was currently having or previously had an affair?” Sherlock asked immediately, never one to miss an opportunity.

“No,” Jeremy ground out, “neither of them was having an affair. I thought you were supposed to be a genius. Didn’t you hear me tell you last time that they were trying to adopt?”

“Adoption does not necessarily preclude an affair, but your body language indicates that despite your offense at my question, you clearly believe that neither one was currently having an affair at the time of their disappearance,” Sherlock responded. “How about in the past? Did either of them mention previous marital issues?”

Jeremy glared at Sherlock, but answered, “No. Neither Pam nor Derek mentioned a past affair or even previous problems between them.” Jeremy paused for a moment before adding in a slightly softer tone, “Derek did mention that an argument with his father is why they moved to London from Bishop’s Stortford and cut ties with his family. I don’t remember him ever mentioning any specifics of the fight.”

“And Pam’s family?” Sherlock pressed.

“I know Pam’s mother died when she was a child and her father died shortly after they were married. I only remember that because they were both very fond of him, and were sad that he wouldn’t get to see his adopted grandchildren,” Jeremy replied. “I don’t know if that’s any help.”

“Impossible to say at this juncture, but it is new data to create a more accurate representation of their lives,” Sherlock answered.

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t have just asked, it’s not like I wouldn’t have told you this information,” Jeremy countered.

John actually stepped in again to answer Jeremy’s accusation, assuming that Sherlock would just unintentionally rile the trainer back up, “We didn’t know how involved you were with the Ashdowns when we first met you. Until Sherlock had a chance to interview you we couldn’t be sure that you weren’t having an affair with one of them. Additionally, even though Sherlock considered it highly unlikely, there was always a remote possibility that you were involved in Derek and Pam’s disappearance.”

Jeremy just huffed in irritation at this statement but didn’t actually reply, so John continued. “I know you are annoyed with us Jeremy, and I do understand, but it is important that you don’t tell anyone Sherlock is investigating your friends’ case. Other people knowing that Sherlock is investigating may alert the actual criminal.”

Jeremy continued to scowl at both Sherlock and John, obviously highly upset, before apparently coming to a decision and responding, “Fine, I won’t say anything as long as you ask any questions directly rather than attempt to hoodwink me to get any more information you might need. Deal?”

“Acceptable,” Sherlock said. “I am aware that you informed DI Morton when asked that neither Pam nor Derek mentioned any threats or appeared nervous about their safety, I am curious however if the passage of time has caused you to change your opinion?”

Jeremy actually paused to consider the question before replying, “No, they seemed pretty open and honest, I never saw them looking over their shoulders or hesitant to answer questions about their activities. Pam was always volunteering what they were up to and I would think if they were worried about someone, they would start with being more discrete about day to day plans and would be less social and outgoing.”

“Theoretically yes, that would appear to indicate that they were not feeling threatened, supposing they were not so foolish as to fail to choose a logical response to a known threat,” Sherlock responded, John rolled his eyes. Sherlock never was able to understand that absolute truth and unadorned logic wasn’t always the correct emotional response when someone was angry.

Jeremy practically growled at this reply, “God you are an utter bastard aren’t you. My friends were not rash and Derek was highly protective of Pam. If there was a threat to her, he would have done whatever was necessary to protect her.”

“Of course he would have, any good husband would, and from what you have said Derek was a very good husband,” John said hastily. Jeremy looked at him closely before nodding sharply, John continuing quickly before he lost the trainer’s sympathy, “I’m sorry Jeremy. I know that you probably would prefer not to deal with us anymore but we need you to keep training us.  Sherlock has some leads, but if the man realizes Sherlock is onto him he may disappear. We can’t risk breaking our cover. Will you continue to help us for Pam and Derek’s sake?”

“For Pam and Derek,” the trainer confirmed. “Any more questions, Mr. Consulting Detective?”

Sherlock shook his head in response, and Jeremy went on, “In that case, let’s get with it. You have a warm up session to complete. Then I want to take the two of you on a two-mile run, followed by a cool down session. Once you have finished recovering from the run, I am going to have both of you work with me on developing a strength training program for yourselves, it’s important to keep the body balanced.” Jeremy paused for a moment before finishing with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’m guessing you aren’t even going to be competing in a marathon are you?”

John said apologetically, “No. I’m sorry, we needed a reason to meet with you.  If it’s of any consolation, we both do a lot of running around the city after criminals, so it will likely be good for us to work with an actual trainer and pick up some tips.”

Jeremy barked out an exasperated laugh. “Well at least the training won’t be a complete waste of time. Alright we might as well get this farce on the road.” And with that the trainer abruptly turned away and strode further into the YMCA.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

That evening found John groaning as he stood in a steaming hot shower, allowing the hot water to cascade down his stiff back. Jeremy had given them a rather extensive work out during the morning session. John thought the man had actually pushed them a little harder than he would have normally as a punishment for their actions. Jeremy hadn’t done anything to put their health at risk or cause them injury, but this was the hardest John had worked out since leaving the military. John had been fine until they finished the run, but then Jeremy had worked with the two of them to develop an upper and lower body strength-training program. John had done extensive physical therapy on his left shoulder after recovering from surgery and had continued with a home exercise program to keep mobility in the shoulder, but he hadn’t worked it this hard ever.

John had noticed that he was slightly sore on their way home, but throughout the day the shoulder had continued to tighten up despite his repeated stretching exercises. John knew he hadn’t helped himself out by doing extensive computer research during the afternoon to assist Sherlock. The consulting genius was working to eliminate some of the employees, DJs and bands that worked at the clubs, but it was a slow, frustrating process. Eliminating suspects from the huge pool of possibilities meant proving that they weren’t available for one or more of the disappearances, which meant John spent hours online surfing social networking sites and nightclub websites, trying to confirm locations, work and travel history. John thought it was both fortunate and frightening how much he was able to find online for complete strangers. He didn’t even want to know what kind of sites Sherlock was hacking into to determine other people’s alibies. John was pretty sure Sherlock was using another of Mycroft’s all access passes to check passport travel, and lord knew what else.

One of the difficulties lay in the fact that none of the three couples who had attended the nightclubs had an exact disappearance time. They all been given a 48-72 hour window in which they were taken according to the police, and even Sherlock hadn’t been able to narrow down the time any more than that, which made eliminating suspects difficult. Two of the other couples, Police Constable Davidson and his wife, as well as the first couple, the Turpin’s, had disappeared in twelve hour windows, so Sherlock was able to use those cases to eliminate some of the employees, but lack of specifics in the disappearances was rapidly irritating both the detective and his blogger, as it massively increased their workload.

John sighed as the water continued to flow across his shoulders, the heat soaking in and soothing sore muscles and joints. The day hadn't been made any easier by the intrepid Ms. Riley. Her article had spurned the gutter press, which had been thankfully absent since shortly after Sherlock's return, to reappear outside Mrs. Hudson's door again, looking for another headline. They had exited the taxi at 221 Baker Street after returning from the YMCA into a crowd of screaming reporters and flashbulbs, all of them asking rude questions. John had led the way, as the two had pushed their way through the crowd in their attempt to reach the safety of the flat, when Sherlock's rude, random deductions about people had surprisingly helped instead of hindered a situation for once.

A twenty-something year old photographer had been standing directly in front of the door to 221, his camera flash going off directly and repeatedly in John's face and refusing to move until Sherlock announced rather loudly that he thought it was a fascinating comment on human behavior that the man was sleeping with both the thirty-something female reporter to his left, and the young male photographer that Sherlock pointed out further back in the crowd. The observation caused the rest of the reporters in the crowd to start shouting out for Sherlock to explain his deduction, and rudely inquiring of the three if it was the truth. The two photographers and the reporter took off in three different directions, taking a significant portion of the crowd with them, finally allowing John and Sherlock to escape behind their door.

Now late in the evening after managing to feed Sherlock his second meal of a workout day, John was standing in the shower, wondering how much help he was going to be to Sherlock if this case suddenly got dangerous. His shoulder was frozen up and flash fires of pain and numbness were running down his arm. Eventually John climbed out of the shower, dried off and pulled on his briefs and pajama bottoms. He groaned in pain at the thought of pulling on his top or his dressing gown. Instead John downed a couple of paracetamol with some water, grabbed his wintergreen muscle cream and headed out into the sitting room.

Sherlock was playing a soft tune on the violin as he stared contemplatively into the fire. John groaned as he dropped into his chair, causing Sherlock’s head to snap around and focus on him, Sherlock’s eye’s narrowing as he scrutinized John’s posture.

“Shoulder’s just a little sore, Sherlock,” John said, preempting the quiz about how John had injured himself as Sherlock lowered his bow. John squirted some of the wintergreen cream onto his right palm and reached over and started to one handed massage the cream into his left shoulder and neck, sighing and closing his eyes as the cream heated and soothed the sore muscles. John breathed in deeply, finding the wintergreen scent relaxing instead of offensive as many of his patients claimed.

John started halfway out of his chair when a warm pair of hands landed softy on his tense shoulder and started kneading. “Christ, Sherlock! What are you doing?” John yelped as he turned abruptly to the detective standing behind his chair, Sherlock’s hands falling off his shoulder as John twisted around to face the detective, his upper back objecting to the motion, making John wince.

“I would have thought that was obvious, John,” Sherlock replied, “Your shoulder has stiffened up from the unaccustomed strength training, not to mention the tension caused by our unexpected encounter with the reporters this morning. Unless you have additional limbs of which I am unaware, you are unable to adequately massage your shoulder and neck to loosen the joint. Now without a good massage, I have no doubt that your shoulder will be considerably worse in the morning. The amount of pain you are currently in and the decreased mobility in your shoulder joint means that you would be unable to handle a fight, much less properly shoot your gun if either was required. Additionally the pain and stiffness in your shoulder would interfere with your ability to work tomorrow, which would lead to irritability on your part, which may further hinder your ability or willingness to help with the work. Now may I be allowed to continue or are you going to carry on being a stereotypically difficult doctor?” Sherlock finished, clearly exasperated at having to explain himself.

John closed his eyes in frustration, unable to debate Sherlock’s logic with the throbbing pain and spasms in his shoulder. John nodded as he settled back into his chair, giving his unvoiced consent to the massage, the pain overriding his concerns about his response to such personal contact with Sherlock, and convincing him to give in to his flatmate’s reasoning. Sherlock reached over his good shoulder and snagged the wintergreen cream and a brief moment later, warm fingertips were gently messaging tense muscles, working over knots, the cream continuing to warm the skin. John relaxed back into the chair as the pain in his shoulder slowly eased, groaning when Sherlock would hit a particularly tense area.

“So what’s the plan for the next several days?” John inquired after a while as he continued to relax into the massage, the muscle spasms decreasing.

“Tomorrow morning we are going to go met DI Gregson,” Sherlock answered as his hands slid from John’s shoulder to his neck, which John allowed to loll forward as Sherlock’s fingers continued to apply pressure to exactly the right points.

“Gregson?” John asked, groaning softly again as Sherlock focused on a particularly tight knot at the base of his neck. “I don’t think I know him. How is he related to this case, or did he invite you in on a different case?”

“He was the DI in charge of PC Davidson’s case. I am hoping to gather more information than is listed in the report,” Sherlock answered, his hands now working the muscles on either side of John’s neck. “The case notes seem relatively extensive compared to the other cases we are investigating, presumably due to the fact that Davidson was a PC, but DI’s often have impressions about cases that they do not necessarily mention in the official records.”

“Okay. Anything we are going to do in the evening? You remember I have a four hour shift of locum work for Sarah tomorrow afternoon, right?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock responded and John could practically hear the eye roll. “As for the evening, I have no specific plans for Monday, although Tuesday afternoon we are going to the bowling alley that Mr. Williams’ daughter routinely visited. It is too obvious to join one of the teams so soon after their disappearance, but I believe I can extrapolate some data just by visiting the venue. I have done some online research, and learned the rules of the game and some of the basic principles. We can rent a lane and use some of the alley’s balls, so that you can pretend to give me lessons while I observe,” Sherlock concluded, his fingers now massaging John’s upper spine.

John nodded bonelessly, as he allowed Sherlock to continue to knead the rapidly relaxing muscles. As Sherlock’s hands moved back up to John’s left shoulder, John felt them stop and one finger stroke around where John knew the small entry wound existed on his upper back.

“Were you kneeling to tend to a patient, or were you investigating something on the ground when the sniper shot you?” Sherlock asked almost inaudibly.

John didn’t even ask how Sherlock figured out that John was kneeling when he was shot. He figured the locations of the entry wound on his upper left shoulder, and the much larger exit wound on his chest, were probably a pretty easy mathematical calculation for the detective. John didn’t often move around the cool flat with the scars exposed, but it was far from the first time they had been visible to the detective. John was actually surprised that Sherlock had never asked about the injury before, or that he hadn’t just stolen his service file and read the details for himself.

“I am surprised you haven’t already read my service file,” John admitted, avoiding the question for a moment, not really wanting to talk about Afghanistan or the injury that had so dramatically altered his life. When Sherlock didn’t say anything, just continued to stand behind him with one fingertip just touching the entry wound, John finally answered, deciding to get it over with. “Kneeling over a patient, behind what we thought was good cover. Unfortunately there was a sniper behind us, along with the insurgents in front of us. The insurgents had actually set a pretty smart trap. They exploded an IED driving us back towards a fallen wall, and then a few of them laid down covering fire, forcing us behind the wall and right into the sniper’s line of sight.  Unfortunately for the insurgents we had a sniper of our own, and he was able to find real cover and spot the insurgents’ hide. It took a couple of shots but he got the insurgent’s sniper.”

John took a deep breath, feeling the remembered pain bringing some tension back into his shoulder, before Sherlock’s hands started up the massage again, probably in response to his body language. John allowed the silence in the flat to continue for a moment before finishing the story, “I wasn’t the only one wounded, so I talked Murray through applying bandages and medicating the rest of the wounded. That’s actually the last thing I remember from that day, I was talking Murray through putting a wrap on my lieutenant’s leg, the IED had driven a huge chunk of shrapnel through his thigh, and I had to get Murray to help me one-handed tie off the femoral vein. I learned much later I stopped him from bleeding out but I passed out before I could clean out the wound properly, and the man developed gangrene forcing his surgeons to amputate his leg. The next thing I was aware of was twenty-four hours later and I was in the field hospital, and the surgeon was explaining what he had done to correct the damage to my shoulder, and when I was expected to be shipped back to England.”

John sat in the chair unwilling to turn around to see Sherlock’s response to his history, unsure how the consulting genius would process the information. After a moment when Sherlock still hadn’t said anything, John started talking out of desperation to change the topic. “So what kind of case were you on that caused you to learn how to give a massage? I can’t imagine how else you would learn such a skill.”

John was surprised when Sherlock didn’t answer immediately; he usually loved to show off both how he solved cases and how he had obtained odd skills. After a while Sherlock replied, “I fear John that as much as your powers of deduction have improved, in this case you are rather off base. Mummy had issues one summer with slipped discs when I was a teenager and routine massage relieved her symptoms most effectively. Mycroft was away at university and father was overseas, therefore I felt that it was my obligation to find a way to provide Mummy some relief when she was unable to visit the masseuse. I arranged for lessons with the masseuse, the techniques were relatively simple to learn and Mummy appreciated the gesture, which of course galled Mycroft,” Sherlock finished, his voice slowly changing from subdued to very subtly warmth. John thought you would have to know Sherlock very well to notice the change in tone, but for Sherlock this was obviously a happy memory.

John smothered a smile, able to picture a slightly shorter, serious faced young Sherlock determined to help out his beloved mother. “Well if you ever get tired of the consulting detective business, my formerly locked up shoulder can attest to your abilities in massage therapy.”

Sherlock chuckled softly, gave one final rub to John’s now thoroughly relaxed shoulder muscles, before moving around John’s chair and settling back in his own. “I will keep that in mind, John, although I suspect others might find you slightly biased as you are my husband.”

John joined Sherlock in his laughter, before standing and stretching, now nicely exhausted. “So DI Gregson in the morning. I am guessing he is not at New Scotland Yard headquarters if I haven’t met him before, so where are we meeting him?”

“Actually he works out of the City of Westminster station house, as did PC Davidson prior to his disappearance,” Sherlock answered.

“Alright then, see you in the morning,” John said as he moved towards the hallway.

“John,” Sherlock said softly behind him.

“Hmmm…?” John questioned as he turned partially to look at his flatmate-come-husband.

"You earned that medal that you keep hidden," Sherlock said softly. "Your fellow soldiers would be hurt that you consider your actions that day as something that needs to be kept concealed." 

John froze as Sherlock's words surprised him, both the sentiment and the fact that Sherlock had found the medal he despised, although John supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Sherlock had gone looking for it. Bill had mentioned it on John's blog shortly after the Pink case and Sherlock always hated not knowing every detail. John's brain eventually unfroze and he replied, "Medals are for heroes, Sherlock, not surgeons who passed out in the middle of doing their job."

Sherlock frowned at John's reply, "Your scar would indicate that there was a high likelihood you should not have survived that injury. Yet in spite of what had to be mind numbing pain, blood loss, and terror at the possibility your own death, you managed to stay focused, and talk a fellow solider through triage treatments that saved others' lives and limbs. I believe that fits the normal definition for heroic behavior." 

John swallowed around the lump in his throat, “I thought heroes didn’t exist.”

"They don't, but I must admit that I have learned that heroic actions do occur and some of those action merit some form of recognition," Sherlock said, smiling slightly. "Just something for you to mull over in your funny little brain. Good night John," Sherlock finished as he placed his violin in his lap and started to strum contemplatively. 

John didn’t know how to respond to this, unable to believe that his actions that day were worthy of the medal he had received, but unwilling to talk about that day any more with his flatmate.  John finally just nodded slowly, before turning and moving up to his bedroom. As he settled into bed, his nicely relaxed shoulder and back making no protest at any of his movements, a small odd sliver of warmth started curling in his gut from Sherlock’s words and John smiled as he closed his eyes and drifted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: To any readers who don't know about snipers the term "hide" refers to a covered and concealed position from which a sniper (and his team) can conduct surveillance and/or fire at targets. A good hide conceals and camouflages the sniper effectively, provides cover from enemy fire and allows a wide view of the surrounding area. So in my story the insurgent sniper had the less effective hide than the British Army Sniper.
> 
> I want to thank all my readers and reviews, who have been so understanding with the rewrites, and who have been so supportive of my story efforts. I hope I can continue to meet your expectations and that you will continue to review and help me to improve with your constructive criticisms and support.
> 
> I want to give a shout out to my Beta Ivory Winter who had to put up with an insane amount of rewrites in this chapter.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	8. Details in the Rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, the long-suffering, All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 8 Details in the Rough

The next morning found John rushing to keep up with the consulting detective as he strode purposefully into the Westminster police station. The two of them were easily proving, to John's utter disgust, one of Sherlock's favorite maxims that anyone could walk in anywhere if they chose the right time. John followed Sherlock right past the main desk and up the stairs to the detective’s offices without anyone giving them a second look, much less challenging their presence. John huffed and grumbled to himself as they walked up the stairs. "You would think the desk sergeant or one of these constables would at least notice we aren't wearing visitors' badges. It's unacceptable."

“Although I suspect Lestrade would applaud your desire to ensure that security personnel adhere to correct procedure, you may want to consider that perhaps in this instance your concern is inappropriate,” Sherlock replied.

John snorted, “And could you explain to me why you just couldn’t have set up an appointment to meet with Gregson, instead of dropping in unannounced?”

Sherlock shrugged, "When I first began consulting for the Yard, Gregson and Lestrade worked in the same department and they had some odd competition between the two of them for solving cases. For a considerable time after I began consulting, Gregson refused to take my advice on any cases, and frequently expressed the opinion that it was inappropriate for Lestrade to be accepting my deductions before full forensic reports were finished and the results confirmed what I had already determined. He only started to grudgingly request my advice when Lestrade's higher closed case rate got him a promotion before Gregson. And although both of them fail to utilize more than the most basic of observational and deductive techniques, they are the best of a bad lot, and therefore the least objectionable of the Met." 

 “So Gregson resents you because he doesn’t think Greg deserved his promotion?” John asked.

“Somewhat, but at this point I believe he considers me more of an irritant than anything, as he still grudgingly requests my service on the occasional case and he was one of the first DIs to contact me regarding a cold case once my and Lestrade’s names were cleared.” Sherlock paused for a moment, his head tilting to the side as he seemed to consider something. “It may also have calmed the feud that when he received his promotion, it removed him from the Yard and transferred him to Westminster.”

“I still don’t see if he has used you on cases before, why you didn’t just contact him and ask him about the case.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Did you miss the part where he considers me an irritant, John? Gregson has ignored me every time I have approached him unsolicited about a case, the dullard refuses to consider my advice unless he contacts me first.”

“So we’re going to ambush him in his office? Sounds like a dandy plan to get him willing to give us information, Sherlock,” John said, sighing in exasperation at Sherlock’s unrepentant smirk.

A moment later they exited the stairwell into the bullpen. John followed Sherlock as he winded his way through detectives and sergeants’ desks towards an office with an actual door labeled ‘Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson’. John supposed he should have been unsurprised when Sherlock barged through the partially open door without even knocking, and announcing his presence with, “Ah, Detective Inspector Gregson, attempting to solve cases again without a net?”

John groaned to himself as the tall fair haired man behind the desk looked up to glare at the intruders. The man managed to look even grumpier when he realized whom the intruder was and John could see DI Gregson attempting to get a hold of his temper, even as the man stood and approached them. The DI replied to Sherlock’s interesting greeting in a bitingly polite tone. “Mr. Holmes and you must be John Watson.”

John shook the hand that was extended to him as the DI turned to address Sherlock. “And what kind of information will you be purporting to have about my work today Mr. Holmes?”

“Gregson, although it is very kind of you to invite my assistance,” Sherlock returned, a small smirk on his face, “I am actually here to request information on a cold case. I believe you would remember the case, it was approximately 4.4 years ago, a diamond heist at a Berkhoff’s Jewelry Store near Saint James Square.”

Gregson frowned slightly in concentration before answering, “Yeah the owner was closing up for the night, when the back door was kicked in. Berkhoff was severely beaten, ended up in the hospital for a while if I remember correctly. The thieves got away with a quarter million pounds in uncut diamonds, never recovered any of the diamonds or found the thieves.”

Sherlock nodded, “Correct. Mr. Berkhoff would like the thieves to be found and brought to justice for their crimes, and has therefore hired me to review the case to determine if your ineptitude caused you to miss any details which could lead to his attackers.”

John managed to control his frown of irritation at a mention of a client that John had never met and at Sherlock’s bluntness. Although Sherlock was often rude comments about the police’s ability to solve cases, it was usually more focused than this. He would attack specific ineptitudes and failures, but other than Anderson, he didn’t outright attack someone until he had specific items, which allowed him to prove their incompetence. John wondered if Sherlock wanted the man angry and defensive for some reason.

 “We followed every viable lead, in addition to several highly unlikely leads on that case. Absolutely nothing panned out, so you go right ahead and look Mr. Consulting Detective, but you won’t find anything,” the DI growled out in reply.

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows at the DI's assertion, his disbelief easily apparent. "If you are done defending your dubious honor, I would like discuss your case notes if that is acceptable. We only have limited time today as John has a shift at the clinic at noon."

Gregson closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, John was sure the man was fighting to keep his temper under control. The DI took a deep breath and finally answered as he settled back into his desk chair and reached into the bottom desk drawer, “Alright then, what do you need to know?”

“Who was the first officer on the scene?” Sherlock queried.

The DI shuffled through the case notes. “PC Davidson, he was working patrol in the area. He arrived first on the scene, looks like when he arrived the thieves had already left. He kept Mr. Berkhoff alert and talking while they waited for the ambulance, and then he was reassigned to help with the door-to-door interviews for witnesses.”

“How many other officers were on the scene besides forensics?”

“Myself, my sergeant at the time Donaldson, PC Erickson, and several other PC’s working the door-to-door,” Gregson replied, not looking up from his notes.

Sherlock settled into a chair across from the DI, waving John into the other one, as the two men continued to chat for a while, Sherlock grilling the DI on what seemed to John to be random information about the crime scene and the personnel that worked the scene. John thought that it was entirely possible that the questions weren’t as random as they appeared, although as far as John knew they hadn’t been hired to work on this case. Although that didn’t necessarily mean that Sherlock wasn’t trying to solve it as well. The man never missed an opportunity to show off. Eventually the conversation slowed down and Sherlock leaned back into the chair, his hands coming up to meet each other under his chin.

“Well Mr. Holmes, do you have any suggestions?” Gregson asked pointedly after a short uncomfortable silence, clearly exasperated with all of the detective’s pointed questions.

Sherlock leaned forward and gave the DI an appraising look. “Perhaps. I would like to interview the first officer on the scene, PC Davidson.”

“Ahh… that could be a problem, Davidson emigrated suddenly with his wife to the States about two to three weeks later.”

"Really?" Sherlock responded, his eyebrow rising sharply as he paused for a moment and John was suddenly on alert, certain Sherlock was up to something. "So the first officer on the scene of an unsolved diamond heist and brutal assault leaves the country a mere two weeks later. Seems rather convenient."

John thought the DI was going to have an aneurysm. His face was instantly red with rage and John could see veins pulsing in the man’s forehead. John got ready to jump between the two detectives in case he needed to protect Sherlock, and then was amazed when Gregson took several deep breaths and obviously forcibly pulled himself under control before grinding out in a tight voice, “PC Davidson’s absence was not related to the theft. We actually already investigated the man when he first moved.”

Gregson paused for a long beat before sighing and adding, “Davidson was not the most… competent of PCs. The man took a long weekend, telling his co-workers that he was going to spend it reconnecting with his wife; apparently they were having marital issues. His supervisor reported him missing when he didn’t turn up for work the next week. When I started investigating we discovered no one had seen him or his wife for several days. I started working it as a missing person’s case, and since he was the first on the scene of such a high profile theft, of course I looked for a connection. We had gotten well into researching his and his wife’s lives when we finally got Davidson’s e-mailed resignation. The idiot…,” Gregson took a deep breath and calmed himself again before continuing, “excuse me, the constable had routed it to the wrong the wrong department and it had bounced around for a while before it reached his supervisor. Turns out that his wife got offered a high paying job in New York, something in computers, and he decided to go with her to the States looking for a better life.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “And no one thought it was odd that Davidson didn’t brag about his wife’s new job and moving overseas prior to their disappearance?”

“A little, but Davidson wasn’t popular among his co-workers, he had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He had a public school education and he tended to irritate people talking about his higher education and how he could have done anything with his life. Not to mention one of his co-workers mentioned that he thought he was having an affair, something we never proved I should mention. As we were investigating his disappearance we also learned that his wife had a highly antagonistic relationship with her family, allegations of abuse. I figured they didn’t want the family to know they were leaving until they were gone,” Gregson replied.

“None of that clears him from being involved in the diamond heist, in fact it would seem to give him an increased motivation to need finances to get his wife away,” Sherlock pointed out.

“So it would, but what you don’t know is that as well as having gone to public school, Davidson had a well-endowed trust fund. He wasn’t kidding when he said he could have done anything, he could have lived comfortably on the proceeds as long as he wasn’t terribly extravagant.”

Sherlock kept looking at the DI pointedly. “And the wife didn’t have any debts?”

The DI sighed deeply, “No, she didn’t. I looked into debts when we were treating the two of them as a missing person’s case. Neither his nor her accounts showed a sudden influx of cash, no new safety deposit purchased, or any financial activity at all that indicated an increase in cash flow.” Gregson held up his hand to stop Sherlock from interrupting, “And before you ask, the move was legitimate. Both their passports were logged as leaving the country by customs at Heathrow, and I found the company the wife was hired for and contacted their personnel department. Even got them to send me a copy of her employment contract.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose at this statement, “Well it seems that you have cleared PC Davidson rather thoroughly.”

Gregson looked suspicious at the statement but replied relatively calmly, “A fellow officer had disappeared and there were accusations of illegal activity, of course I was going to be thorough.  Now if you have enough information to assure your client of the completeness of our investigation, I have active cases that I need to work on.”

Sherlock nodded as he stood up to leave the room, John stood to follow holding out his hand to the DI. “Thanks for your help. I am sure Mr. Berkhoff will be very appreciative.”

Gregson grimaced as he shook John’s hand, “If you say so, personally I think he is chasing a ghost this time. Good luck to the both of you, and I suppose congratulations on your marriage.” John raised an eyebrow, surprised that the DI who obviously disliked Sherlock knew about the ceremony. “My wife has been following your blog rather obsessively since Sherlock’s resurrection, I think she considers him a sort of folk hero. Now if you don’t need anything else, I really need to get back to my work,” the DI finished dismissively.

John turned, trying not to giggle at the incongruous picture of Sherlock as a folk hero as he hustled to catch up to the genius while Sherlock moved quickly through the bullpen towards the stairwell. John caught up to him just as Sherlock started moving down the stairs. “So what was that about? How come you worked so hard to rile Gregson up? Lied about having Berkhoff as a client?”

“You really are getting better at observing John, I must congratulate you.”

John just rolled his eyes as he replied, “Your compliment aside, you still didn’t answer my question. Spill it.”

Sherlock grinned unrepentantly, “Really John, it is quite simple. I am sure if you consider the idea for a while you can figure it out even with your average intelligence.”

John just threw a glare at Sherlock as they continued down the stairs. Sherlock finally gave a frustrated sigh before answering, “I needed Gregson off balance, I wanted his honest opinion of the man and I wanted him to be forthcoming about the Davidson’s disappearance without making it apparent that I was investigating it. You notice he had to stop himself from insulting the PC several times, and he mentioned the rumors of the affair, although he had no proof. He disliked Davidson, considered him to be a substandard officer and likely a poor husband. More interesting was the information about the wife’s job and their supposed move overseas.”

“Do you think that perhaps the Davidsons might have actually moved and maybe they aren’t part of this case?”

“No, in fact this information confirms that the Davidsons were taken,” Sherlock contradicted, “I went looking for that company several days ago, and it has disappeared. It appeared to go out of business about a year after the Davidsons moved. Additionally, apart from the letter from the personnel department, I can find no record of the Davidsons renting or purchasing a home in New York.”

John thought about this for a moment as they strolled out of the building. “New York’s a huge city, couldn’t they have an unlisted sublet or something?”

“Theoretically yes, however I suspect that the kidnapper actually created a false trail. It would only take a little computer knowledge to create a fake website for the company and fake e-mails, even reroute a phone call that would allow the kidnapper to cover his trail with minimal effort.  Additionally, Gregson could not drive to their supposed headquarters and interview anyone, and notice that Gregson didn’t mention actually speaking to either of the Davidsons.”

John nodded as he considered Sherlock’s words. He thought it might be a bad sign that he had seen enough crime with Sherlock that he could easily follow Sherlock’s logic and picture the kidnapper covering his trail this way. As they were getting into the cab John finally asked, “So are you going to tell me who did the diamond heist? I can’t believe you haven’t already solved it.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand even as the corner of his mouth twitched in a small smile at John’s backhanded compliment. “Simple, Berkhoff hired a few ex-cons to pretend to break into his place at the end of the day and beat him up to make it look like they had stolen the diamonds. In actuality I suspect he had faked their purchase as part of an insurance scam. As Berkhoff was injured in the supposed heist no one looked too deeply into his motivations, other than to use his inventory and purchase records to confirm the amount of diamonds missing, both of which could be easily faked. A cursory exam of the records and crime scene photos made that all readily apparent.”

“He was beaten badly enough to have to be hospitalized for several days and you think he hired someone to do it?”

“Yes. If you had seen the medical report even you would be suspicious. Two cracked ribs and a mild concussion. The rest was superficial cuts and bruises that, although looking spectacular to the average layman, did no actual long term damage,” Sherlock replied.

John groaned, “So the case was a cover to grill Gregson. Are you going to tell him you have solved it?”

“Perhaps after we have solved the kidnappings. It really was entirely too simple a case to waste my brain power on, and the case gives me a reason to ask Gregson for further details if necessary,” Sherlock said as they crawled into the cab and headed for Baker Street, John laughing softly at Sherlock’s typical arrogant reply.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John arrived home after his shift at the surgery to find Sherlock in the sitting room, the normal debris on the table relocated to the floor as three laptops, (his, Sherlock’s and Mrs. Hudson’s) along with a huge pile of DVDs were spread on top. John raised his eyebrows as he moved around behind Sherlock, discovering each computer was showing what appeared to be a line of people moving painfully slowly through custom points. John watched for a moment before asking, “Heathrow? Do I even want to know how you got these? Or should I worry about the number of favors you now owe Mycroft?”

Sherlock snorted, “I didn’t need Mycroft for this. I used Lestrade’s badge to convince Heathrow security to release copies of their security footage to me.”

John suppressed a groan, hoping that Sherlock’s maneuver wouldn’t get Greg in trouble, as he continued to watch the videos, noting the date stamp on the bottom that indicated that these tapes were more than four years old. “I am surprised they still have them from so long ago.”

“Both MI-5 and 6 now require security in the international airports and other high risk targets to archive security footage for a minimum of ten years since the 9/11 attacks to allow them to have greater ability to back track terrorist and criminal activity,” Sherlock answered, his eyes moving rapidly between the three separate screens.

John nodded to himself as he considered this. “So you are trying to determine if the Davidsons actually went through customs themselves, right?”

“Not just the Davidsons. Derek Ashdown, Williams’ daughter and son-in-law, as well as two other couples were supposed to have exited via Heathrow,” Sherlock answered, indicating the huge stack of DVDs. “So far I have not found one couple who has gone through Heathrow customs at the time the custom records indicate.”

“So the kidnapper faked the passport records?”

“Yes, and he did it in such a manner that it didn’t raise any alarms. This kidnapper must either have a respectable level of computer skills or have hired a decent hacker.”

“So does that give you enough proof to go to the yard and get them to accept these as linked cases?” John asked as he moved into the kitchen to make some tea for them. “I mean, four couples and one murder suspect going through the same airport with no visual record, only computer notations? Wouldn’t that be a bit of a red flag?”

“Perhaps for the right officer, but I suspect there are not enough apparent linkages for the average yarder, although when Lestrade returns from his holidays on Friday I may present the information to him. He would likely be able to accept my data, and may be able to start an investigation without risking tipping off the kidnapper that we are searching for him,” Sherlock called from his position in the sitting room.

“Alright, do you need another pair of eyes to look through any more of those videos?” John asked several minutes later as he returned with two cups of tea, handing one to Sherlock who took it absentmindedly. “And did you ask Mrs. Hudson before you borrowed her laptop?”

"I left her the skull in the laptop’s place, she will figure it out," Sherlock responded, indicating the empty spot on the mantel next to their wedding photo.

John sighed at Sherlock's comment, hoping that Mrs. Hudson was inured to Sherlock's eccentricities by this point, so with any luck she wouldn't be traumatized by finding Gladstone in her flat. "You realize she might not give him back this time," John commented as his stomach rumbled quietly. "If you don't need help with this, I am going to investigate the possibility of dinner."

As John moved towards the kitchen, Sherlock's fingers unexpectedly wrapped lightly around his wrist, halting John's motion. Sherlock looked at him intently for an instant before asking, "Actually John, could you take your laptop and watch the DVDs in the shortest pile on the far end of the table? The videos need to be reviewed to prove that Derek Ashdown did not pass through customs at the time period indicated by his passport records. There is a photo of him next to the pile and several altered photos to show him with a beard, dyed hair etc. His is the last visual record I need to pursue and my time would be better allocated following PC Davidson's trust fund money trail, as money is still being drawn from the account."

John's heart rate elevated slightly at Sherlock's touch and he desperately hoped that Sherlock's grasp was loose enough that he couldn't feel his pulse, even as he nodded his acceptance of the task. "I think DVD watching is well within my skill set Sherlock. Just let me just make a snack, I only had a light lunch and I don't want to be distracted by my stomach."

“If you must. When we are done I think we should go out for a late meal at Angelo’s. I believe that celebratory meals in locations of significance are considered to be an appropriate couple’s activity. Sentiment, correct?”

John smiled at Sherlock's comment. "Sounds like a good plan Sherlock, and yes that would be the correct emotional choice for a new couple." John paused for moment and frowned as the rest of Sherlock's words sunk in. "Did you say money is still coming out of Davidson's trust fund? Do you think one of them is still alive, or is the kidnapper using the money?" 

“Unknown at this time, those are a few of the questions I am hoping to resolve,” Sherlock replied, dropping his grip on John’s wrist. John momentarily regretted the loss of that light touch, even as he forced himself to turn and move into the kitchen, wondering just how crazy Angelo would go when they arrived in his restaurant as married men. It was sure to make an interesting end to the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all my readers and reviews, who have been so kind in there reviews. I love reviews and comments as they help me continue to improve both this story and my overall writing.
> 
> I am announcing a FanWork for this story. Sunshine Thru the Storm wrote a lovely drabble to this line:"I left her the skull in the laptop’s place, she will figure it out," Sherlock responded, indicating the empty spot on the mantel next to their wedding photo.’ Read it on FanFiction: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8067294/37/
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	9. Analysis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 9 Analysis

Almost an hour and half later John leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head and groaning as his eyes closed in weariness. He had lost count of the numerous security feeds he had reviewed, covering the fifteen minute time period in which Derek Ashdown was supposed to have passed through customs. Not a single person on the feeds looked remotely like Ashdown, with or without a disguise. John was pretty comfortable that his results proved Sherlock’s deduction that the man’s travel records had been falsified by the kidnapper, although if this ever went to trial he was sure some poor forensic tech would have to review the footage for the prosecutor. John stood as he twisted his back and rubbed his tired eyes, feeling his stomach begin to grumble again, the toast and tea he had eaten having long since gone.

“Sherlock, Derek Ashdown definitely didn’t pass through customs at the time period listed on the passport records,” John dutifully reported to the detective, who had moved away from the laptops on the table an hour before to settle in his chair in front of the fireplace, where he was strumming his violin meditatively. John wasn’t surprised when Sherlock didn’t respond or even appear to hear his words. He chuckled softly to himself as he watched the light and shadows cast by the flames’ light playing over Sherlock’s features, enjoying being the only person privileged to see this sight on a routine basis.

After enjoying the tableau for a moment longer than was entirely good for his mental health, John turned back to the sitting room table, once again noticing Mrs. Hudson’s laptop. John sighed, sat down in front of it and did a quick scan to make sure that Sherlock hadn’t left anything on the computer that the consulting detective might need or that might bother their intrepid landlady. After John was reasonably sure it was safe for Mrs. Hudson to use again, he picked the laptop up and wandered downstairs to her flat. Knocking as he opened the door John called out, “Mrs. Hudson?  Mrs. Hudson I’ve brought your laptop back.”

“Oh, John, thank you dear,” Mrs. Hudson answered, coming into her sitting room from her kitchen at John’s call. “I was wondering when Sherlock was going to be done with it.” Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, and then asked in a mildly concerned voice, “Ummm… Is it okay? He didn’t…?”

“Oh… no Mrs. Hudson, the laptop’s fine, I checked it myself and he doesn’t seem to have done anything permanent to it.” John smiled at her as he handed the computer over to her and started looking around for the skull. “I’m sorry he didn’t ask you before absconding with it.”

“That’s alright. It’s not like I know that many people who would leave skulls lying around,” Mrs. Hudson answered, smiling as she was obviously amused at least this time by Sherlock’s eccentricities.“It’s been awfully quiet up there today, are you boys okay?”

John’s smile grew rueful at her concern, unsure what it said about their lives that calm and quiet was considered worryingly suspicious by their faithful landlady. “He’s just busy on the case right now. In fact he’s meditating with his violin at the moment.”

“Oh, well then you should hurry back upstairs then, he is always so disappointed when he is done musing and you aren’t there to amaze,” Mrs. Hudson responded as she absently pointed out the skull that was sitting on a sideboard in the corner of the room.

“Mrs. Hudson, I am sure Sherlock’s fine if I am not there while he is thinking,” John answered, trying to keep his voice positive as he crossed the room to pick up Gladstone, not wanting to hint at how much it bothered him that Sherlock failed to notice when he wasn’t in the room.

Mrs. Hudson’s mouth opened like she was going to reply, then she stopped suddenly, peering at John closely as he crossed the room towards the door with Gladstone before she asked, “Perhaps you really don’t know. I suppose he wouldn’t do it when you are home and who else but I would bother to tell you?”

John looked at Mrs. Hudson, completely lost with this sudden conversational twist. “I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock doesn’t do what when I am home?” John stiffened for a moment as one of his recurrent fears of self-destructive behavior crossed his mind. “It’s not something dangerous is it?” John shook his head as he corrected himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, noticing Mrs. Hudson’s hurt expression. “No of course it isn’t. I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson; of course you would have told me if you knew he was putting himself at unnecessary risk when I wasn’t around.”

Mrs. Hudson had promptly looked less hurt at John’s apology. “No dear, it’s not anything dangerous.” She paused for a moment, looking at John closely again. “He… well he asks for you.” She paused again, noticing John’s continued confused expression, before explaining further. “Sometimes when he comes out of those meditations of his, he… well… he seems to be a little confused. Sherlock will say something that makes absolutely no sense, and then when I reply, he… then he flinches like he didn’t know I was there and asks for you. He always seems so surprised that you aren’t home.” Mrs. Hudson looked sad for a moment, “I sometimes wonder what he does when no one is there to answer.”

John froze in shock at Mrs. Hudson’s words.  John knew Sherlock kept talking to him even when he wasn’t home, but it had never occurred to him that Sherlock might sometimes actively look for and perhaps, John couldn’t even believe he was considering this, perhaps even miss him when he was away. John slowly asked, “Does this happen often?”

“I wouldn’t know dear, but I have seen it happen at least three times since… well since he has come back, and at least a few times before he left,” Mrs. Hudson answered. “It was one of the reasons I was so happy for your marriage. Sherlock may not always remember where you have gone or notice you leaving, and when Sherlock does fail to notice you leave, forgets something important, leaves more of those horrible thumbs in the fridge, or just does something… well something Sherlock again, the both of you will have tangible reminders of how much the other cares in those rings you exchanged.”

John stared at Mrs. Hudson, unsure of how to reply to her words. He supposed as part of their cover he should say something soothing or reassuring to play up their cover story, but John just couldn’t think past the confusion rolling through his thoughts. This was even more bewildering than discovering he was on Sherlock’s accounts. John’s mind kept spining, repeating the unbelievable picture of Sherlock being surprised when John wasn’t there when he came back from his mind palace excursions.

“John dear, are you all right?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no Mrs. Hudson,” John hastened to assure her, “you didn’t say anything wrong. I… I just didn’t know.”

“Oh, dear I am sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you,” she said in a concerned voice.

“No it’s fine. I am glad you told me,” John answered trying to reassure her, and get his mind back on an even keel. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson, and thanks for understanding about Sherlock borrowing your laptop for the case,” John continued, trying to give her a reassuring smile. “I really should be going, Sherlock mentioned that he wanted to go to Angelo’s tonight, and you know how he is when he is on a case, can’t afford to miss the opportunity to actually get him to eat.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled, “Oh that’s wonderful dear. That’s the restaurant you went on your first case right?  That’s actually quite...  romantic for Sherlock. Although I do hope you boys are planning a proper honeymoon soon. A break from those dreadful cases would do you both a world of good. You would think someone as intelligent as Sherlock would have thought of that when he planned your wedding, and avoided cases for a while, even if your work schedule is a bit busy. Then you could have celebrated more, even if it was only at home in your flat.”

John gave her a forced smile as he was reminded of how much pain he would be causing their wonderful landlady. “It’s alright. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that old saying that you should never marry a man thinking you can change him. Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock if the cases weren’t so important to him, would he Mrs. Hudson?” John tried to reassure her before he hurried back upstairs to their flat to return Gladstone to his proper position on the mantel next to their wedding photo.

He found Sherlock still meditating with his violin, and as it was only just coming up on seven John thought he could give Sherlock a little longer before he had to interrupt the mediation to find out if the detective still wanted to go out this evening. To pass the time John settled down in front of his computer, deciding to give up on creating a better title and finally posted ‘The Silver Blaze’. When he had the entry tweaked to his liking, he checked his e-mail again. John found he had a few more replies to his inquiries from the various management companies of the nightclubs, which he summarized and printed out to give to Sherlock later. He also cleaned out his e-mail, deleting a surprising amount of junk from both his inbox and junk e-mail filter.

“Burial,” Sherlock half shouted, bolting up out of his chair, startling John who was struggling to write a short summary report about what Sherlock had told him regarding the Berkhoff diamond heist, in case Sherlock didn’t remember to (or decided that it was too boring to bother telling) Gregson after they found the kidnapper. “Burial John,” Sherlock continued excitedly as he strode over to the sitting room table.

John raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for Sherlock to explain. “John, seven couples, fourteen people, have disappeared, and not one body has turned up? Think John, where are they going?” Sherlock demanded.

“It’s a big world Sherlock, he could be disposing of the bodies in the Thames, or burying them like you suggested, perhaps outside the city. The killer could even have dismembered them and have the parts disposed of separately? Even I can think of lots of ways to hide the bodies.”

“Exactly, although the Thames or any other body of water is unlikely. Fourteen bodies in the water?  Statistically I would have expected that at least one or more of them would have turned up if he was disposing of the bodies in that manner,” Sherlock responded, his hand waving in the air as a dismissal of that line of thought. “Dismemberment is a genuine possibility as smaller body parts would be easier to transport and conceal. But I suspect burial, and burial somewhere he has absolute control and privacy,” Sherlock expounded. “If he was burying them somewhere that might be even remotely public, he should have either been noticed by now or had one of the bodies turn up. People are amazingly unobservant, but decomposition has a distinctive odor and tends to attract animal attention, particularly people’s dogs, if not the actual owners themselves.”

Sherlock started pacing the sitting room for a moment before halting and turning to face John. “This man would need to be extremely detail orientated.  He manages to learn enough information about the couples’ lives, public and private, to take the couples at a time that would go unnoticed. He is also able to create a detailed enough false information trail that makes their disappearances look like a natural move on their part. In fact, the killer has enough control of the situation to not rouse the suspicions of the police and in many cases not even family and friends. Furthermore he gathers all this information and still manages to go unnoticed by the couple in question.”

Sherlock paused again, before moving closer to the table, and dropping into seat across from John. “The question is why? Why go to all that trouble? What does our killer gain for his efforts?” Sherlock looked at John intently before continuing, “What if what he gets is time? No one is looking for the couples when they disappear initially. By the time anyone is even mildly suspicious he has had more than enough time to cover his tracks and make it look like there is no reason to search for the couples. Covering his tracks that completely would give him the ability to do whatever he wanted with them while alive and then dispose of the bodies in any manner he chooses. Since none of the bodies, not one John, has ever turned up, I believe he is burying them in a location that is both readily accessible and easily controllable, perhaps allowing him to revisit them time and time again if he so chooses.”

“Alright. That makes sense,” John said, nodding slowly as he absorbed what Sherlock was telling him. “So can we use that information to track him down?”

Sherlock groaned in frustration, his hands ruffling his dark hair distractedly. “Not precisely. If I could locate the dumping ground it will lead us directly to the killer, or if we can find him the dumping ground should be simple to deduce.”

John watched his frustrated flatmate for a moment, before leaning partway across the table into his personal space. “Sherlock, I think you need to take a break. You have been working on this case almost non-stop, and even if you don’t think you’re hungry, your body needs calories. Have you eaten anything today?”

Sherlock groaned at John’s question, more than answering John’s question. “Yeah I kind of thought so. You know sometimes a brain, even your brain, needs a break. Let’s get some food and you can deduce some of the restaurant patrons; you know showing off is one of your favorite activities right after solving impossible cases.” John brought his hand up and poked Sherlock’s forehead with his finger as John teased him. “That will let your ridiculously amazing subconscious percolate on the case for a while. You never know, it might just give you a big breakthrough. Not to mention poor Mrs. Hudson was just telling me how awful it was that we didn’t take a honeymoon. I don’t think she would understand if we canceled our sentimental dinner plans,” John concluded, raising an eyebrow to ask without words if Sherlock would go along with him.

Sherlock smirked mischievously as he suddenly stood whirling towards the sitting room door. “Come John, I did promise my husband a celebratory dinner. It would be terribly uncivilized of me to not provide the meal, and it would never do to disappoint our landlady.”

“Angelo’s reaction is sure to be… interesting,” John commented as he shrugged into his jacket.

Sherlock snorted as he moved down the stairs towards the front door. “An apt if somewhat simplistic deduction. If remaining in the public eye wasn’t so important to the case, I would recommend avoiding Angelo for an extended period of time to escape what is certain to be an… effusive reaction.”

John laughed wholeheartedly at this understatement as he trundled down the seventeen steps behind Sherlock and out the door.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John enjoyed the, relatively, fresh air of London and the companionship of his friend on the walk to Angelo’s. Sherlock took John at his word and spent the walk deducing random bits of information about other people on the street. Sherlock was obviously trying to entertain John as his deductions were funny, nothing life-altering or damaging and as always all of them were downright fascinating to John. Even after several years of hearing deductions, John was still astounded by how much Sherlock could observe and correctly deduce from the tiny details of everyday life and John couldn’t prevent the occasional involuntary ‘amazing’ or ‘extraordinary’ from escaping his lips. He enjoyed watching Sherlock preen very subtlety under the praise. John knew that he was Sherlock’s best friend, but sometimes the way Sherlock responded to his praise saddened him and made him wonder if he was the only person to ever appreciate Sherlock for who he was, without demanding that the genius change or give him something in return. John may try to remind Sherlock about basic social mores in order to protect him, but he would never ever want Sherlock to be anything other than his exasperatingly eccentric self, although he would continue trying to stop him keeping the larger body parts in the fridge.

John’s sides were aching as Sherlock ushered him into the restaurant as Sherlock explained exactly how he had deduced the details of the intricate proposal the harried-looking businessman carrying flowers, a pink elephant, and what appeared to be a large aquamarine sheet had planned for his girlfriend at the London Zoo in the Butterfly Paradise. Angelo spotted them immediately as he came from the kitchen at the back of the restaurant with another patron’s meal. Angelo instantly dropped the meal on the table without a word to the diners before hustling over to the two of them, calling loudly in excited Italian, “Sherlock, amico mio. Congratulazioni. E 'così meraviglioso.”

John grunted as he was swept into a bone cracking hug by the larger man, who continued to gush in rapid, and as far as John was concerned, unintelligible Italian, “Le mie benedizioni sul vostro matrimonio.”

When he finally let go of John, Angelo started pumping Sherlock’s entire arm. The former thief’s hands wrapped around Sherlock’s hand and forearm, moving Sherlock’s arm with such force and speed that John was mildly concerned that Angelo would dislocate Sherlock’s shoulder. Angelo continued to address them both, in English to John’s relief, although he did not let either of them reply. “Sherlock, Dr. Watson this is such a wonderful occasion. I was thrilled to see the announcement on Dr. Watson’s blog. We must celebrate this magnificent event. Billie, the front window table for my dear friends Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson immediately.”

When Angelo finally stopped gushing over them, John found himself ensconced at the table at the front window with the ubiquitous romantic candle between himself and Sherlock, and Angelo rushing to the back of the restaurant, muttering under his breath in a rapid Italian.

“I am very glad Mrs. Hudson isn’t here with her camera,” John muttered wryly. “Evidence of this meal could be hazardous to our mental health if it ever ended up in the hands of the yarders. Do I want to know what he said when we arrived?”

Sherlock smirked as he answered, “Nothing damaging to your pschye, John. He was merely congratulating us and blessing our marriage.” 

John smiled at Sherlock’s good humor and then watched as Sherlock sat for a moment observing the people on the street before speaking again, “This case is fascinating John. Initially I believed this to be an eight. Now I believe I may have miscalculated and it is actually a nine.”

John chuckled softly, “Well at least you requested my hand in marriage, forgive me civil partnership, for an interesting case.”

“Ah, my dearest husband, how dare you imply that I would marry you for something as mundane as a case, especially at our sentimental celebratory dinner,” Sherlock said in mock hurt, continuing after a pause, “and if I did, I would never dare inconvenience my trusted blogger for anything less than an eight.”

John chuckled lightly at Sherlock’s answer, glad that, at least so far, this marriage had not damaged their friendship which was so vital to John. After a moment of companionable silence, John asked a soft question that had been nagging at his mind, one which he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to. “Sherlock, earlier you said that covering his tracks gave him time to do whatever he wanted while the couples were alive. That sentence kind of implies that you think he is doing something to them prior to killing them. Did I follow you correctly? And I still don’t understand how you can be so sure that he didn’t dismember the bodies or cremate them or something.”

Sherlock was prevented from replying as Angelo reappeared beside their table with a large plate in his hand. “Now, I have noticed for some time that you, Sherlock, quite often won’t eat or even order your own food, but you will steal from Dr. Watson’s plate. And so I thought it might be more appropriate as well as romantic just to provide you with one large meal to share.”

Angelo slid the candle to the side and placed the plate between the two of them, the grin on the restaurant owner’s face so large that it practically reached both of his ears. “If you had given me some notice that you were coming, I would have prepared some traditional Italian wedding foods for you, but since I didn’t have time for that, I made you one of my favorite special dishes. It’s Pan Seared Lemon Tilapia with Parmesan Angel Hair Pasta and asparagus. I believe this meal will satisfy both of you. I am sure you know that fish is high in omega-three which makes it excellent brain food my good detective, and the meal will strongly appeal to Dr. Watson’s outstanding taste buds.”

John breathed in deeply as the aroma of the meal reached him. “Angelo this smells wonderful.  Thank you. I promise that I will convince Sherlock to partake of some,” John assured the man.

Angelo smiled at John conspiratorially before leaning over towards John, speaking in a mock whisper, “I am sure you will Dr. Watson. After all, you have always taken care of this great man, as I am sure you always will. Now as his husband, I am sure you will have a little more ammunition to keep up a fine job.”

Angelo reached over and squeezed John’s shoulder, fortunately the right one, with his large fist, before migrating back towards the kitchen. John’s eyes followed the man’s progress for a moment. “Okay, you get to explain things to him after the case, because I think I just got the Angelo equivalent of the ‘you hurt my friend, I hurt you’ speech.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned at John. “Yes, yes. Not to worry John. Now focus on the important point; the case.”

John mock glared back as he teased, “Yes, yes. For my husband of only six days, you are remarkably demanding. Case this, case that. Do try to remember we are newlyweds and that I have never been your PA, despite other people’s opinions. Now I believe you were going to explain to me your reasoning about our kidnapper’s actions.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up at John’s open demand for information. “And you claim that I am the demanding husband in this marriage.”

John started chortling again at Sherlock’s comeback before replying, “Funny man, aren’t you, but you still haven’t answered my question. If you keep avoiding it, I may be forced to start believing that you don’t actually have an answer.”

Sherlock huffed, pretending to be offended by John’s comment. “Really John, one would think you lacked faith in your husband of only six days.”

“Sherlock, I am very disappointed in your word choice,” John returned quickly. “Faith is evidence of things unseen, and I have seen extensive proof of your deductive abilities. However I also know that you are not above bluffing occasionally if you think it will get you the time or the information you need to solve a riddle.”

John smiled and started sampling Angelo’s dish while Sherlock chuckled at his answer. Once Sherlock stopped laughing the genius took a very small bite of the meal before finally starting to answer John’s previous question. “John, this kidnapper is not just stalking and kidnapping people, he is a serial killer.” Sherlock paused for a moment, seeming to decide how to continue. “Most of the studies we use to draw conclusions about serial killers’ behaviors, or profiles to use the colloquialism, are based on interviews and anecdotal evidence and therefore the conclusions are open to question. However practical experience indicates that profiling is of some limited benefit in hunting perpetrators of serial crimes, as when used cautiously the information can predict behavioral patterns of these perpetrators. Our man is an organized serial killer as evidenced by the data I mentioned earlier - the care in stalking his victims, in faking their moves overseas, and in making fourteen people disappear over five years all without raising any major alarms. At least that is until Mr. Williams’s daughter.”

Sherlock took another bite of the meal before continuing his exposition. “Now, being an organized serial killer explains the controlled crime scene, the lack of physical evidence, and covering his tracks by making it look like the couples have moved instead of being taken. All of this could just be forensic countermeasures to hide him from the police. However I feel that only answers part of the tale. Why cover his tracks for so long? What was the purpose of creating and maintaining the website in the Davidson case for a year?  What did he get out of it? To put in that much effort he must have gotten something for his efforts.”

John nodded slightly as he considered Sherlock’s questions, swallowing his mouthful of Angelo’s amazing meal before replying, “Could he have done it to get his hands on the money from the trust?”

“That was my initial conclusion when I noticed the overseas money transfer, but when I started following the money trail, it became apparent that the Davidsons’ money was just moving around in a circle between several accounts. The transfers made the accounts look active to a superficial review, even though the total balance of all the accounts never changed even when they went inactive about a year ago.

John watched as Sherlock laid his fork on the plate as the detective continued to explain his thoughts. “Obviously he didn’t want the money if he just left it in the accounts, so why wait so long to let them go inactive? It seems like counterproductive behavior, particularly since if anyone become suspicious and began looking at the accounts closely there is an increased likelihood that they would be able to track him while he was shuffling the money. Another forensic countermeasure? Possible, but seems unlikely as the official police investigation ended less than a few weeks after the Davidsons were taken and neither of their families has ever questioned their absence.”

Sherlock leaned across the table toward John as he talked, “An additional anomaly in the behavior is that organized serial killers will often contact the police or media in some manner to seek the attention they feel they deserve. This man never has, in fact he is going out of his way to avoid attention, so he must either be receiving the attention he craves from another source or he is getting something else out of the kidnappings and killings.”

Sherlock paused for a moment as John frowned, trying to understand what his flatmate’s words were implying before responding softly, “You think he isn’t just killing them, don’t you Sherlock? You think he is torturing them. You think that’s what he is getting out of the extra time; it gives him time to torture them.”

Sherlock stared at John’s face for a moment before replying, “Yes. Either mental or physical, possibly both. There is not yet enough data to determine exactly what he does to them between the time he abducts them up to the point he kills them. Based on the evidence currently available, I believe him to be a process-focused organized serial killer, as opposed to an act-focused killer.  Act-focused killers mostly kill quickly because it is the act of killing a person that drives them.  There is only one case in which there is even partial evidence that our kidnapper may have killed someone quickly. That is the Ashdowns, the second couple, where the police found blood in the house. Due to the lack of evidence of even a possible immediate kill in any of the other cases, I am theorizing that the killer may have lost control of the situation, possibly due to lack of experience, and had to subdue Pamela Ashdown with more force than usual.”

“So you said our killer was process-focused,” John asked, tapping the side of Sherlock’s fork with his own fork, hoping to subtlety remind the genius to eat something. “I probably don’t want to know this but what exactly does that mean for our couples?”

Sherlock gave a small glare at his fork before picking it up and taking a small bite. After swallowing it he continued, “Process-focused killers…” Sherlock paused briefly before finishing his sentence, “John they get their enjoyment from the torture and slow death of their victims.”

Sherlock watched him closely as John swallowed and kept his face rigid as he took in this information. “So the reason for the extensive cover up is to give him more time with them alive as well as to cover his tracks,” John summarized.

“Yes, I believe so. And the money movement in this case may have something to do with the torture of either of them, although perhaps it doesn’t relate to the torture at all.  There is simply not enough data to draw a conclusion at this time.”

John nodded and continued eating in silence for a few moments, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze as the genius continued to monitor his response to this new information. John finally spoke again after a long moment. “Alright, I can follow your reasoning so far. What you are saying seems… horribly logical. I still can’t see how you go from determining that this…” John’s voice broke as he struggled to find a word strong enough to describe this man in a moderately public venue. “…monster is torturing them as well as murdering them to deducing that he is burying the bodies instead of other options.”

“Educated deduction based on predicted patterns of behavior for serial killers,” Sherlock replied. “Process killers are considered to be one of two sub-types, although I consider it more likely that additional research will prove that they can be a combination of both. They can be hedonists who kill for lust, thrill and or gain. Or they can be power killers, those who kill because they enjoy being in charge of life or death.”

John nodded to himself as he asked, “So Jefferson Hope was a power killer if I am following you correctly?”

“Correct John.” Sherlock smiled briefly before continuing, “Now I don’t have enough data to prove one way or the other but we have already ruled out gain, at least of the financial type.  That leaves a hedonist trying to fulfill a lust or thrill, or a power killer, or some combination thereof. It is impossible to completely rule out any of those options, but ruling out gain as a motivation actually increases my belief in burial versus other disposal methods. As I am sure you have picked up from those hideous crime dramas you partake in, serial killers frequently take trophies.”

John sighed and interrupted Sherlock’s monologue by interjecting, “Are you telling me he is burying the bodies as trophies of his kills?”

“Likely. If he is a lust, thrill, or power subtype killer, what better way to remember his victory but by visiting the body? And it would give him an extra thrill that no one is looking for his trophies.”

John laid his fork next to the plate as one hand came up and rubbed his face. “As much as I hate to act as devil’s advocate, wouldn’t keeping the cremated remains provide him with the same thrill, without the risk of leaving DNA evidence lying around?”

“That is a viable point John, however in order to successfully cremate a body you need to have the ability to heat it to a minimum of 760 degrees Celsius for at least ninety minutes, if not longer. That would give him limited options for cremating fourteen bodies unobserved, not to mention the transport involved, unless he has access to a crematorium.” Sherlock’s head tipped to the side for a moment as he seemed to consider this thought.

John smiled at the picture his flatmate presented as Sherlock drifted into thought, shaking his head ruefully. “I suppose as well as you trying to figure out what the man was actually doing with the money, we will now be visiting numerous funeral homes and crematories to help you determine how someone might gain access. Should I bother pointing out that it is not exactly usual for the newly married to consider funeral arrangements, particularly when neither of them has a chronic medical condition?’

Sherlock smirked at John’s teasing voice, accepting his attempt to lighten the mood. “Ahh but John we have chosen dangerous field of work, it is logical for us to get the tedious business dealt with immediately so it is not a future concern.”

John chuckled at Sherlock’s response, smiling widely, as Angelo appeared at the table again. “Excellent!” he exclaimed clapping his hands together, “I see you both enjoyed your meal.”

John looked down at the table startled, realizing that the plate was mostly empty, and that Sherlock must have actually eaten at least a quarter of the meal, which was a large amount for the detective when he was working a case. John smiled again at Angelo, before answering, “The meal was excellent Angelo, you outdid yourself. Thank you, it was very kind of you to provide us with a special meal.”

Angelo waved him off, “Not at all Dr. Watson. It was the least I could do for my two favorite patrons. Now would you like a dessert or night cap?”

John took a quick look at Sherlock who shook his head slightly. “Not tonight Angelo, but thank you,” John answered, standing up, noting that Sherlock did the same.

John started to reach into his pocket for his wallet when Angelo stopped him with, “None of that Dr. Watson, you know better.”

“Angelo really, you deserve something for providing us once again with a delicious meal. I am sure Sherlock would agree, you have long since paid any debt you owed him,” John said slightly frustrated, kicking Sherlock quickly in the ankle when he opened his mouth presumably to disagree with John’s statement about payment.

“Well then Dr. Watson, consider it your wedding present,” Angelo replied smiling.

“Of course, Angelo,” Sherlock cut in before John could reply, “As you wish.”

John closed his eyes, frustrated, realizing that between the two of them he was defeated. John’s eyes flew open in surprise as he felt Sherlock take his hand and pull him towards the door. John attempted to control his face and not give the game away. Sherlock was leading him out the door a short step away from their table when Angelo grabbed their linked hands and pulled them towards his chest, saying, “Evviva gli sposi. This is a traditional Italian saying meaning hurray for the newlyweds, and I can think of nothing better to express my feelings about your marriage, so: Evviva gli sposi.”

Angelo’s hand squeezed their joined ones a last time before he let them go and smiled broadly at them as they moved out of the restaurant and headed back to Baker Street, hands still lightly clasped together as the restaurant owner watched them stroll onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: To any of my readers who may actually speak Italian, I apologize for what I assume is bad Italian in this chapter. I don’t actually speak or know anyone who speaks the language but I felt that Angelo speaking in Italian was an important character point. So I tried to keep it simple and did the best I could with Google translate. I hope you forgive any errors, and if you speak Italian and have better word choices, please private message me and offer advice to improve my wording.
> 
> Once again I sincerely thank all my readers and reviewers, who have been so kind in there reviews. I am honestly honored by everyone who reviewed, kudod, bookmarked and subscribed. I love reviews and comments as they help me continue to improve both this story and my overall writing.
> 
> I also want to thank my amazing beta Ivory Winter who really helped me tweak all the case details sections to make sure I was covering all my bases with Sherlock’s deductions and explanations.
> 
> Thanks,


	10. Pins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, The Amazing and Patient - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 10 Pins

Running. He needed to be running, he had to get there, to move faster. His feet couldn’t get any traction; the sidewalk was turning into quicksand. He had to move, to reach Sherlock. His chest was tight with pain and fear as he fought to move his feet forward. He was running out of time, if he didn’t reach the roof, something horrible was going to happen.  He had to reach it right now, before… before his world ended. His hand was outstretched toward the sky, his feet failing once again to gain purchase on the ground, when he heard a soft and faint, ‘Goodbye, John.’ And then his vision was filled with black fluttering cloth.

John bolted upright, his mouth open in a silent scream of denial and pain, heart pounding in his chest, drawing in a gasping panicked breath as his grief at Sherlock’s death squeezed his chest and paralyzed his thoughts. John raised a shaking hand to scrub his face, trying to orientate himself, his mind spinning in anguish.  John froze as the cool metal of his ring touched his cheek. He slowly pulled his hand away from his face, his eyes locked on his wedding ring as John fought to bring his breathing under control. John’s chest eased as he continued staring at the ring, its very existence driving home that it hadn’t been real, it was just a nightmare. The fall, that whole horrible moment had been a magic trick and Sherlock was back with him, safe in 221B.

A long moment later John started chuckling softly, proud that it was only slightly hysterical.  Mrs. Hudson had been right, even if it wasn’t in quite the way she had imagined. The ring was a good reminder, not of Sherlock’s emotions, but rather of the consulting detective’s very existence. The ring had grounded John and convinced him of reality without him needing to see Sherlock with his own eyes. Even in John’s wildest dreams he never would have imagined Sherlock marrying him, so the madman had to be alive.

John rolled himself out of the bed and wandered downstairs to wash his face and perhaps have a cup of tea and allow the nightmare to fade. John mused to himself as he moved down the stairs, comparing the aftermath of this nightmare to the ones he had plagued him on and off since the detective’s return. For the first time, John hadn’t had to force himself to walk, instead of bolt, downstairs to confirm Sherlock’s presence with his own eyes. He was easily able to remember the past nine months, Sherlock’s return, and the late night stories the detective had regaled John with during those first months when his nightmares that Sherlock’s death was real had kept the doctor awake and searching for Sherlock in the middle of the night. The silver ring also reminded him of the case that had brought it to John’s finger, grounding John even more in the here and now. The compulsion to see his flatmate for himself was still there but with the ring providing a physical link to reality, it was minor compared to his last one a few weeks before their marriage.

After washing his face with some cool water John moved into the kitchen, glancing into the sitting room where he noticed Sherlock curled up on the couch, his back to the sitting room, and his bare toes digging into the armrest closest to the hallway. John put the kettle on to boil, watching closely to pull the kettle before it could make too much noise and wake the detective if he happened to be actually sleeping. After steeping his tea, John walked slowly into the sitting room, noticing that it was coming up on three am.

John just watched for a few moments from where he stood a step or two from the couch as Sherlock’s chest rose and fell in slow deep breaths, deciding that the detective must have just crashed on the couch for a few hours. John continued to stand next to the couch sipping his tea, feeling his heart rate finish returning to normal, and the last of the stress from the nightmare fade away as he confirmed the reality of Sherlock’s presence with his own eyes. Sherlock had obviously been working on the case as the floor around the couch, clean a few hours ago, was now strewn with paper and crumpled up post it notes. John’s eyes drifted slowly from his prone flatmate to the case wall. He noticed that the smiley face was now completely buried along with a larger percentage of the wall, and the colored thread seemed to have multiplied in the few hours John had been sleeping. John tried following the strings again, but it was like trying to understand Sherlock’s deductions when the genius didn’t help walk him through the steps.

John gave up after a moment and looked back down at his slumbering genius, frowning to himself as he realized that the sitting room was getting quite cold. His flatmate's feet were bare, and although he was in his expensive pajamas and dressing gown, they weren’t very thick. Even though Sherlock didn’t seem to feel the cold like John did, he would sleep better if his body wasn’t wasting valuable energy trying to stay warm. John set his tea down, reached over to his chair, pulled the afghan off the back and very gently laid it over the sleeping detective. John smiled softly as he reached behind him to pick up his cooling tea again, still watching his sleeping friend for another short moment, before depositing his now empty teacup in the kitchen and returning to bed and Morpheus’s grasp.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

The next afternoon found John in a highly irritated mood, trying very hard not to slam open the door to the bowling alley as he entered in search of his friend-slash-temporary-husband. The consulting detective had once again been absent from the flat when John had gotten up in the morning. That was so normal as to be almost expected. It wasn't the three text messages that appeared through the course of the morning demanding that John find all the crematoriums within a fifty mile radius of London, then to research requirements for owning and operating crematoriums, and then finally demanding that John arrive at the bowling alley at one thirty in the afternoon without so much as a polite or impolite ‘by your leave’. That was standard case mode behavior, highly irritating but manageable. It had also been another one of the many things John had been surprised he had so desperately missed when Sherlock had been gone. So although the demands irritated him, he continued to tolerate them within reason.

No, what had John in lather was his sister. John had thought he would have been able to avoid her for a while after their conversation last Thursday. Harry had made her feelings about his marriage extremely clear in their painful discussion. But no, this morning she had to send him a long e-mail missive detailing Sherlock's faults in excruciating detail yet again. That was nothing new; John could have handled something so routine without a blink. Harry was certainly not the only person who didn't understand why John tolerated the genius. The problem was that included in all her vitriol about Sherlock were strong hints at the opening, and finally by the end of the e-mail outright accusations, that it was John's fault that she had fallen off the wagon once again.

According to Harry, her severe anxiety about John's mental health after Sherlock's Fall, had caused her extreme emotional distress. She strongly implied that John should have been able to quickly recover from his flatmate’s death, instead of moving through his life like a ghost while the 'insufferable madman' played dead. Harry came right out and said that John should have been aware of the pain he was causing his sister and sucked it up and recovered for her sake. He certainly shouldn't have moved back in with Sherlock when he resurrected himself because that put John right back in danger, following the detective around playing hero and causing Harry yet more anxiety about John's physical and mental health. And now to cap it off, according to her, John had gone around the twist and married the nutcase. She insinuated that she was unable to deal with her younger brother's apparent descent into madness and remain sober.

On top of this Harry had contacted Clara, supposedly to celebrate John's marriage, only to be sent away when Clara realized that she was drinking again. John knew he should not let it get to him. He knew as a trained doctor that alcoholism was an addiction, a disease, and that he was not to blame for Harry's relapse, but the undertone in her accusations that he didn't care about her irritated and pained him, which made him angrier at both her and himself. John had not yet replied but he knew he couldn't avoid her forever. He wondered if Sarah had any contacts at rehab centers that might be able to take Harry if John could talk her into going once he calmed down enough to try and broach the subject. Again.

John’s level of irritation increased when he realized that the consulting detective was not immediately visible as he moved into the alley’s lobby. John was on the point of yanking out his mobile and firing off a text demanding to know where Sherlock was, when a long familiar arm was slung around his waist and John was pulled sideways into a much taller body. Soft warm lips were pressed briefly, much too briefly a small part of his now non-functional brain reported, to the side of his head just below his hairline.

“Ahh, John. I was just becoming concerned that you had forgotten our date,” Sherlock purred just above his ear, causing an instant thrill of fire to run through John.

John was unable to prevent his heart rate from jumping at both the kiss and the tone, but was pleased that he managed to keep his voice controlled when he replied, “No in point of fact, according to my watch I am right on time, so you must have been unfashionably early.”

Sherlock moved from John’s side to stand in front of him, his eyes narrowing as Sherlock took in his body language, before an eyebrow quirked in question. John shook his head slightly, replying to Sherlock’s  silent query about what had wound him up so much. “Later. What have you been up to this morning Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned in obvious frustration, “Little of use. I was attempting to more precisely pin down several of the employees of the nightclubs that I considered likely suspects. Unfortunately I have now eliminated all but eleven of the employees or acts that have been employed by any of those idiotic nightclubs. The remaining eleven do not appear to have specific alibis for any of the kidnappings, but also appear to not fit the so-called profile I have sketched out for this character, and a few would have been too young five years ago to be likely prospects for a serial killer. It cannot possibly be a coincidence that so many couples attended clubs so closely connected, but I cannot find the common denominator that binds them all together.” Sherlock finished his tone biting in anger.

“Well, then it really wasn’t a wasted morning was it Sherlock?” John said bracingly. “Aren’t you always going on about eliminating things so whatever remains must be the truth? So you must be at least partially closer to the truth.”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head at John’s words. “Very impolite of you to use my own maxims against me John. In any event, there are more leads to follow. We still have not explored this rather…” Sherlock paused and looked around at the brightly lit lanes spread out in front of them. The place was typical of bowling alleys in John’s experience, various signage for beers and liquors, high score boards for individuals and teams in the local bowling leagues, advertisements for other local businesses that might sponsor a team or two and a few groups of young adults perhaps university students, having a few games for fun. “… interesting place.”

“And joy of joys, I am sure you are planning on dragging me to a funeral parlor or a crematorium or two or four,” John reminded him.

“Ah, yes. Planning for the future. Highly important John in this unpredictable world of ours,” Sherlock teased back. “And as long as we are planning our future, we may need to consider a visit to the British Association for Adoption and Fostering.”

John groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “God, please tell me you are kidding.”

John looked at Sherlock, who just raised an eyebrow in response. "Well at least that will cut down on some of the junk e-mail I receive from them. I am sure to be off the prospective parents list once I turn you loose on them. I can't imagine a consulting detective with a penchant for keeping body parts at home for experiments and for being targeted by criminal masterminds is going to be high on their list of acceptable candidates." 

Sherlock tried, and in John’s judgment failed miserably, to look wounded at John’s opinion of his suitability to be an adoptive parent. "Alright, I will hold off on torturing you with another visit to the Association. What little I am able to determine of the Ashdown’s case does not make it look like a prosperous lead at any rate. They hadn’t even started the interview or application process. It appears they were only in the process of requesting information about how to start the process and discovering what steps they would be required to complete to be considered.”

“Alright,” John answered, “so onto the bowling, then?”

“Yes John, bowling,” Sherlock mocked at John’s statement of the obvious, to which John merely gave a mock glare and moved over to the lane and shoe rental counter, the detective trailing behind.

Fifteen minutes later found the two of them on their own lane, which fortunately was some distance away from the rowdy group at Sherlock’s insistence, preparing for their first game. There had been a small hiccup at the counter when Sherlock had realized that he wouldn’t be allowed to wear his own shoes onto the lanes. He had subsided with a pout, and a very confused look from the pimply faced teenager handling the transaction, when John pointed out that wearing reused bowling shoes was probably one of the least risky things he did on any given day given his fondness for interesting experiments.

Since Sherlock had never bowled before John had rounded up several bowling balls of various weights for Sherlock to try, and one for himself. Taking a deep breath to brace himself, John finally asked, “You said that you read up on the rules and some of the principles. I suppose it is too much to hope that you have actually ever played even a partial game?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's question. "It's a fairly simplistic game John. I am sure that I have the basics well in hand, and will have little difficulties picking up the skills required." John stifled a laugh as Sherlock's voice settled into lecture mode. "As I am a right handed, the recommendations are that I start by using the arrows on the lane as a guide to aim the ball down the lane so that the ball impacts the pins at a slight angle between the one, more commonly referred to as the headpin, and three pin. Ideally hitting this pocket at the correct angle and with appropriate force will result in a 'strike' alleviating the necessity of throwing the ball again and removing the remaining pins standing and thus achieving a 'spare'. I, of course, also spent a few minutes learning the scoring method that was mind numbingly simple in the extreme. I will need to do some extensive renovation on my mind palace after this case is resolved to remove the rules of play and scoring, as it is dreadfully useless information."

John chuckled to himself, picturing Sherlock in his palace scraping a huge sign labeled ‘Bowling rules of play and scoring’ off a wall. “Alright, alright. Well since you feel so confident that you understand what to do, how about I go first so you can watch the stride and release to get some idea of the motion, as you couldn’t read that off Wikipedia.” John frowned for a moment considering, “Although I am left handed so you will start your stride on the opposite foot from me.”

Sherlock waved a hand somewhat dismissively at John’s concern, before frowning in thought again. “Are you sure that your shoulder can handle the weight of the bowling ball?”

John shrugged, “Don’t know. I haven’t bowled since I came back, but I run around carrying shopping and all. That doesn’t seem to bother it. If it starts to be a pain, I will try switching to my right hand, and you can have a laugh at my lack of ambidexterity.”

Sherlock smirked mischievously at this comment, but refrained from replying, shooing John towards the lane with a ‘get on with it’ motion. John approached the lane with his chosen ball, lighter than the one he had preferred in university in deference to his shoulder, and took a deep breath before lining up his shot and beginning his stride. The ball rolled down the lane, and much to John’s relief hit the one-two pocket with a decent amount of speed, leaving only the seven pin standing. As John turned to walk back to retrieve his ball from the return, he glanced at Sherlock, whose only comment was another quirked brow.

John easily picked up his spare and then took a seat as Sherlock took his turn. John very carefully bit his lip as Sherlock started his stride forward, for once looking awkward and graceless. The buzzer sounded as Sherlock’s foot slid over the foul line on his last step, and Sherlock started slightly, causing the ball to come off his fingers much too high, crashing onto the lane and ending up in the gutter long before it came close to the pins.

Sherlock turned to glare at John as a small snort escaped him. John fought very hard to compose himself, before standing up to approach his friend saying, “Yes well, perhaps we should start you back a bit further than I do. I didn’t take into account those great gangly legs of yours.”

The next hour devolved into a farce of gargantuan proportions as John tried to teach his friend at least the basic skills of the game. At first, John just attempted to help Sherlock adjust his stride and the timing of his release. Sherlock was prickly to start with at accepting John's corrections, obviously unused to being anything but perfect at something, but John was able to get Sherlock to relax as he started bowling right-handed. Much to Sherlock's amusement, John's skill level took a dramatic dive as he had significantly less control of the ball with his right hand. Sherlock's natural grace helped him to pick up the stride and release after a few frames, but aiming took longer, as Sherlock kept twisting his wrist slightly upon release of the ball which gave it a much larger hook than Sherlock intended, often landing the ball in the gutter. 

After a while, John was laughing so hard at their respectively dismal scores and large number of gutter balls that John started making a game of it, to see how few pins he could hit without landing the ball in the gutter. To Sherlock's amused disgust, John's score actually improved the harder he tried to hit fewer balls. Sherlock did eventually manage to develop his own personal style of bowling that quickly improved his score, but Sherlock kept John laughing with his running commentary on the inanity of bowling in general and their fellow bowlers. John normally would have been upset by some of Sherlock's observations, but since they were the only two able to hear them, John found that the comments took his mind of his irritation with Harry.

After two games Sherlock told John that he had gathered all the information he could at this time, and they collected their shoes and exited the alley, John still laughing occasionally at the images of Sherlock’s first few attempts at bowling in his head. As they exited the alley, John turned to face the detective to ask where they were off to next when Sherlock jumped in with, “Fortunately that was less…  painful than it could have been.”

John smiled and chuckled lightly at Sherlock's inability to admit that he might have enjoyed himself at something as commonplace as bowling. "I am glad that you survived such a horribly dull everyday activity. It would be terribly rude of me to torture my husband with boredom in our honeymoon period. People might begin to question our motives for marriage if I did, perhaps even wondering if I married you for the tax benefits or something."

Sherlock’s lip twisted at the corner as he obviously tried not to smile at John’s teasing. “As I may have mentioned before, people tend to be horribly unobservant, so I have no doubt I can ensure they see exactly what I wish them to see.” Sherlock’s facial expression shifted and became more serious before he asked, “What did Harry do that had you so upset when you arrived?”

John started and stared at Sherlock’s observation, the shift in conversation throwing him as well as Sherlock’s accurate deduction about who was the cause of John’s discomfort.

"Come now John, it was hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock said. "Very few people can irritate you to that extent - myself, your sister, my brother and occasionally Donavon or Anderson. We have had no contact with the Yarders on this case, and they have no current cases that would require them to come to the flat and request my services. To the best of my knowledge, I have done nothing outrageous enough that would lead to that level of irritation in you. You have had no interactions with my brother since the ceremony last week, so that only leaves your sister. My theory was further confirmed by your reaction to the group of university students who were playing several lanes down from us. You normally look upon mild drunken antics as amusing in people of that age. Today they irritated and depressed you. Hence, it is likely that Harry is the cause of your mood."

A slightly rueful grin crossed John’s face at Sherlock’s deductions. “I realize that I have said this before, but the way your brain works is amazing, and a little frightening.” John ran a hand across his face before continuing, “It’s nothing new, and you likely deduced it all once you knew it was Harry irritating me. She’s off the wagon again, and she claims that I am responsible for her relapse.”

Sherlock frowned at John’s statement. “That is patently ridiculous.”

“Yes, yes. I know that Sherlock,” John interrupted before the detective could go off on one of his tirades about Harry. “I appreciate your concern for my mood, but I really don’t want to talk about it in the middle of a busy street. In any case, crashing bowling balls into pins helped me vent my frustrations, and I will deal with replying to her later. See if I can convince her to go into rehab again, or a twelve step program.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and then snapped shut again as he obviously bit back a cutting remark. John smiled, appreciating the effort. “Alright, enough talk of irritating relatives, what’s the next step in the case?”

Sherlock grinned a little evilly in reply and snapped his fingers like a magician, and a card appeared between them. “Right you are my dear husband, cases are much more interesting than siblings, and I have another glorious website for you to explore. See what information you can glean from the website about the leagues, tournaments, etc. As I doubt a place such as this would mention employees on their website, I am going to go to the headquarters of the corporation that owns this bowling alley and a few other places and see if I can persuade them to provide me with some employment information.”

John groaned. “Should I be prepared to pay for your bail again?”

Sherlock grinned cheekily. “Unnecessary this time. The small corporation that owns this establishment is family owned, and it was a matter of a half an hour’s work to determine that the manager they hired a few years ago has been spending beyond her means. As she has no sainted aunt who passed away and left her any money, it was easy to deduce that she was skimming from the corporation. I have a meeting with the head of the family, and it should be relatively easy to demonstrate her theft.”

“And you think the owner is going to give you access to his employment records for wrecking his day?’

“Oh yes, _she_ will be thrilled, as her eldest son has grown quite enamored with the manager and the owner has been looking for a reason to remove the manager from his life without risk of driving him away as well,” Sherlock replied, obviously pleased with himself.

John just sighed at Sherlock’s simplistic view of what sounded like an emotional minefield to him. “Alright. You’re not planning on breaking the news to the son are you?”

“No, no, entirely too much sentiment for my choice. I am going to present my case to the owner, and provide her with the means to gather the appropriate evidence to either present to the police if she chooses to pursue litigation, or just to give to her son if she wishes.”

John felt a small wave of relief run through him as he realized that with luck he would not need to be patching up Sherlock tonight because he had dashed someone’s romantic hopes again with one of his biting deductions. As he rummaged through his pockets for his oyster card he asked, "So see you back at the flat in a few hours?"

"Yes, barring unforeseen difficulties," Sherlock replied, as John started to turn away to head for the tube. John stopped halfway through his turn when an idea crossed his mind, which he quickly decided to act upon, his soldier's soul demanding that he not waste this opportunity.

"Sherlock," John called as he turned back, drawing the Sherlock's attention back to himself and away from the street where he stood, his hand raised for a taxi.

Sherlock only partially turned towards him, an inquiring expression on his face. John quickly stood up on his toes and pressed a brief kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, before pulling away at a hopefully normal pace and commenting, “Forgot to give my husband a goodbye kiss. Shockingly out of character for a newlywed. You’ll have to forgive me, I must remember to practice so I can polish my acting skills or risk giving the game away.”

John flashed Sherlock a quick smile and a brief wave before trotting off to the underground, without giving Sherlock a chance to say a word.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

A half hour later John trundled up the stairs into the kitchen at Baker Street, intent on making himself a cup of tea, and highly irritated with himself for being nervous about having initiated such a small peck on the cheek with Sherlock. Sherlock very likely would believe that it was part of their cover story and that John was taking an opportunity to tease him a little. Worrying about it would only give Sherlock reason to look at him closer, and perhaps give him the opportunity to notice things that the genius had so far overlooked. John's eyes shut as his frustration level went up another notch and he bit back a groan upon hearing Mycroft calling from the sitting room, "Good Afternoon, John." 

“Mycroft,” John replied, turning to walk into the sitting room. “How nice of you not to stand on ceremony and let yourself in.”

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement of John’s words, although he obviously chose to ignore the behavioral correction implied in them. For all that, Mycroft seemed to understand or at least mimic typical human behavior better than his younger brother. He still showed Sherlock’s lack of respect for social conventions when he decided they would hinder him however.

John waited a moment to see if Mycroft would explain himself, before giving up and trying to continue the conversation himself. John hoped for once that the conversation would be straightforward instead of a guessing game. "I am sure that you are aware that Sherlock is out, so I can only guess that you are looking to talk to me privately. What do you need from me this time Mycroft?"

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched slightly. John wasn't sure if the urbane man was suppressing a smile or irritation at John's abrupt comment. "I do believe that your new husband is wearing off on you John. You are in fact correct that I wish to speak privately to you. I wish to make you an offer."

Mycroft paused in his speech, not continuing for a long moment and, to John's surprise, actually looking mildly uncomfortable. "I understand that your sister is once again having… difficulties. I could arrange a place in the facility that assisted Sherlock when he decided to clean himself up in order to meet Lestrade's requirements to allow him continued access to the cases. The staff is amongst the best in Britain, the facility itself is comfortable, and their treatment program is noted for cutting edge therapies for this type of problem. Of course all expenses would be covered."

John dropped heavily in his chair at Mycroft’s offer, part of his mind making a note that he would have to have Sherlock check his computer for Mycroft’s spyware again. “That’s very… kind of you Mycroft,” John said slowly, before asking the million-dollar question. “In return you would like…?”

“Nothing John. You are my brother-in-law and as such are family. Family supports one another in time of need.”

John sighed deeply. “Mycroft, please try to be a little less condescending. I know that you are well aware of why Sherlock married me. Now I don’t suppose you are going to give me the real reason behind this offer and what you are actually looking for in return?”

"John I assure you I have no ulterior motive." Mycroft sighed very softly at John's disbelieving snort. "Fine if you won't accept it as your right as a member of the Holmes family, consider it a gift in thanks for all the times you have protected my brother." Mycroft gave a rueful smile. "You know I worry for him, constantly, and while you certainly fail to curb many of my brother’s more… dangerous exploits during his little cases, at least I know he has a capable partner in his adventures."

“Mycroft, we have had this discussion before, many times. I will not spy on Sherlock for you, and I help him because he is my friend.”

“I am aware of this John, but just because you protect him with no expectations of a reward does not mean that I cannot provide one.”

“No, Mycroft. I won’t be indebted to you or to anyone,” John answered firmly, before a thought crossed his mind. “I will make a counter offer to you. If I can get Harry to agree to go to rehab, you can get her a place at this treatment facility of yours, but I will pay the bills.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John’s offer. “John this place is designed for, shall we say, the more privileged families in our society. As you can imagine the cost is impressive, even if well worth the results.”

“Doesn’t matter. You get her into treatment and I will find the money to pay you back for it.”

“If you insist,” Mycroft answered with a slight bow of his head to John.

John smiled ruefully. “It might not matter anyway, I doubt that I can talk her into going, she has blown me off the last several times I have brought it up. I am surprised that Sherlock put himself at the mercy of therapists and the therapists survived with their minds intact. I would have thought that after having to deal with Sherlock for you, they would bar anyone you know from the facility.”

Mycroft smiled tightly before responding, “I must admit that Sherlock did go through several therapists as he completed the sixty day program required by Lestrade to work major cases.”

John chuckled at the image, retroactively pitying the therapists who would have tried to analyze a bored, stressed Sherlock. “I hope you compensated the poor fools well for any trauma Sherlock caused them. And I think I will have to remember to buy Lestrade a drink, I always wondered what convinced Sherlock to get clean, especially when boredom drives him so crazy.”

Mycroft simply nodded at John’s statement before standing, and heading for the flat’s door. “Good day John. You have my number if you need to reach me concerning this situation.”

John stood and followed him towards the steps before offering the taller man his hand. “Thanks Mycroft, I do appreciate your offer whether or not I can get Harry to take advantage of it.”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, before shaking his hand, and then sedately heading down the stairs out the door. John watched him leave as he considered how he would try to convince Harry take this generous offer and how he was going to justify accepting Mycroft’s help to Sherlock. After a moment John sighed to himself, shrugged his shoulders and headed back into the kitchen for his long overdue cup of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: To all my amazing readers and reviews. I am taking an idea from other case fiction writers and have a small favor to ask. Please do not put your theories about the case or the perpetrator in your reviews. Many people read the reviews before reading a story and I don’t wish to ruin the story for anyone. I would love to hear if you have a theory or a deduction and then later tell me if you are right or wrong, but please don’t give specifics about your ideas. Thank you so much for your consideration of other readers.
> 
> I know I have said it before but I love the reviews and comments as they help me continue to improve both this story and my overall writing.
> 
> I also want to thank my amazing beta Ivory who was very patient as I hemmed and hawed about the emotions I was dealing with in this chapter. She was amazingly patient and endlessly helpful.  
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	11. Tea, Trainers, and Honeymoons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, The Amazing and Patient - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 11 Tea, Trainers, and Honeymoons

After getting himself a cup of Earl Grey, John settled in front of his laptop on the sitting room table along with the business card from the bowling alley. It didn’t take long for John to determine that the website was next to useless as far as he could tell. It had very limited information, mostly a listing of hours of operation, lane fees, and some very, very basic information about leagues and league bowling. He did take the time to sign up for bowling alley membership and the monthly newsletter, working under the assumption that since Sherlock had wanted that information for London Heathside and the nightclubs that the detective would insist on the same information for the bowling alley.

John finished up with the website for Sherlock and then sat for a few minutes trying and failing to gather his thoughts as he stared at a blank word document, attempting to compose an e-mail to Harry. John started and deleted several different versions, none of which sounded right. Eventually he decided to wait another day or two to contact her. He figured that it made more sense to send her a brief text message and arrange to see her in person, perhaps an invite to lunch at a neutral place, and see if he could convince her to take Mycroft’s offer. John sighed as he rubbed his hands across his face before abruptly standing up and moving away from his laptop, starting to pace around the room, his mind a frustrating whirl of thoughts. Thoughts about Harry, thoughts about Sherlock, thoughts about the case. Running round and round his mind, twisting upon themselves, leading nowhere.

John paced around the room for a several minutes before deciding he needed to get some air or he was going to drive himself mad. As he was heading to grab his coat, he noticed his trainers by the steps and stopped. Five minutes later John had donned his work out gear and was jogging out the front door of 221 Baker Street headed toward Regent’s Park at a brisk pace, trying to outrun his own thoughts.

Slightly more than hour later John slowly climbed up the steps to their flat, his mind nicely blank and his body relaxed. The endorphin rush from the run had helped him calm down and focus his mind. As he approached the flat, John frowned a little upon hearing frantic pacing steps, and what sounded like a large stack of books and papers hitting the floor. Picking up the pace John jogged up the last several steps and into the sitting room.

An obviously agitated Sherlock turned sharply to face John as he entered from where the detective was standing at the table, digging through the numerous piles, a huge stack of books and papers strewn around his feet. Sherlock took in his appearance in a rapid sweeping gaze before demanding abruptly, “And what possessed you to gambol off to run the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park for more than hour, John? We have a case to solve and it certainly won’t get done with you gladding off to run in the park!”

John raised an eyebrow at this outburst, wondering what had got the detective in a mood, before he answered calmly, refusing to let the irate detective get away with being completely antisocial. “Your case involves me joining the London Heathside and prepping to run a half marathon. If you want that to be realistic, then you might want to realize that I need to work out occasionally. Not to mention that I am your flatmate and currently your temporary husband, not a slave. If I choose to work out or do anything when lives aren’t immediately on the line, I certainly don’t need to clear it with you. Try not to delete that little bit of social norms, alright?” John finished with a sharp bite in his voice, giving Sherlock a hard look.

The consulting detective glared at John for a moment before giving a small huff, nodding abruptly, and then crossing his arms, becoming to John’s eye somewhat defensive. After John had given himself moment to calm down he asked Sherlock, “Now you want to tell me what has your knickers in such a twist that you’re making a mess of your own case files and dumping books on the floor? Were you looking for something, or did you need me to go somewhere with you as part of our cover?

Sherlock practically growled at John’s words. “My knickers were not in a twist John. I was merely expressing my concern at your unannounced absence from the flat during an important aspect of the case.”

John’s eyebrow rose in disbelief, “Really?”

“Yes, John, really,” Sherlock groused back, “that idiot woman who owns the bowling alley wouldn’t provide me with the information I requested. She claims that I am both  
insolent and arrogant and would be unnecessarily rude to her current and former staff.  She insists on meeting you, to determine if you can guarantee that if I meet with any of her staff that they will not be unduly mentally harmed. It is completely ridiculous, but she refused to listen to any of my perfectly logical arguments to the contrary!”

John almost bit his tongue trying not to laugh at the consulting detective’s acerbic words and expression, knowing if he lost it Sherlock would sulk for the rest of the night. After he was absolutely certain that he had control of himself, John said, “Alright then. Were you at least able to convince that her that the manager was embezzling?”

“Oh, yes. That was the work of a moment just as I had said and she seemed ready to provide me with the requested information when her son arrived.”  John stifled a groan at these words, his mind conjuring multiple disasters even as Sherlock continued, “The conversation between the two was initially a rather boring discussion of the boy’s new job as an engineer at one of those firms with a uselessly large number of names on the masthead, when he noticed the woman’s file on the desk and  unsurprisingly asked why we were discussing her.”

John didn’t even attempt to stifle this groan as he rubbed a hand across his forehead and inquired in a highly controlled voice, “And I suppose you told him?”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered frowning. “The young man was rather predictably upset. He of course refused to believe the accusations even with the evidence right in front of him. He ludicrously accused his mother of hiring me to discredit her and then proceeded to spend an excessive amount of time doing what I believe you refer to as defending her honor. Which seemed to be almost entirely dependent on the fact that she had informed the young man of her love and therefore she would never hurt him in such a manner, and he finished by declaring his endless devotion to her! It was ridiculous, even for an idiot who only has a degree in mechanical engineering,” Sherlock continued, throwing his hands up in obvious frustration.

“And I suppose you pointed out the error of allowing his sentiment to interfere with his logic,” John said, still not taking his hand off his forehead to look at his flatmate.

“Of course. Believing in someone just because they claim some level of sentimental attachment is patently foolish. It is a one of the oldest tricks in the con-artists trade,” Sherlock said, pacing closer to John and demanding, “How can people be so unaware of the world around them?”

John sighed, a part of him sadden at all that his friend missed because Sherlock couldn’t seem to understand or perhaps couldn’t be bothered to care about emotion, especially this emotion.  Another part of him was highly frustrated that he was yet again trying to explain something that seemed so simple to the rest of the world. “Sherlock… love isn’t meant to be logical. The rest of us can’t see and deduce what you do, so when we get the courage to take that leap of faith and risk our hearts, we can defend those we have risked our hearts for rather aggressively.” John smiled sadly at his friend before continuing, “It isn’t about logic, Sherlock it’s either about protecting the ones we love, or about protecting ourselves from being proved to have been used, our trust wasted.” John finished remembering all the times he had defended the detective during his absence, knowing that Sherlock had been innocent and yet unable to prove it, not having to wonder how the young man in question felt to have his love called a liar.

Sherlock frowned at John, looking at him closely, obviously trying to deduce his train of thoughts before replying slowly, “John, this woman is not worthy of your defense. She stole a significant amount of money from this cooperation, and I suspect several others. She was too good at covering her tracks for this to be the first time she has embezzled money.”

“Oh, I didn’t doubt you Sherlock, and I am sure she doesn’t deserve my sympathy. I was thinking of the boy. No doubt when he finally admits that you're right he will be heartbroken.”

Sherlock frowned again and then sighed, “As you wish. I simply believe that if people insist on claiming to be in love, it would be infinitely more appropriate if they took the time to observe their prospective partners more closely so that they may choose a little more wisely.”

John barked out a laugh, causing Sherlock to glare at him. John held up a hand to stop the diatribe he knew was on its way. “Sherlock, if people looked at love logically not only would divorce rates be significantly lower than they are currently, both you and the police would have a lot less work.”

Sherlock’s frown slowly cleared and he joined John with one of his small, almost non-existent chuckles. One of the ones John didn’t think the detective shared with anyone else, the one that said he had enjoyed John’s words and was amused. John always got a small spike of pride when he managed to startle Sherlock into genuine laughter. After a moment John asked, “So when am I meeting this formidable woman who disapproves of your methods of breaking news?”

“Tomorrow morning. I believe you informed me that you have a four-hour shift in the afternoon, so I arranged to meet with her at 9 am. Hopefully your presence will be able to convince her to release the information that I require. Otherwise I will have to look into alternative methods of obtaining the information.”

John raised an eyebrow at this statement. “I am guessing I don’t want to know how you are going to do that, plausible deniability and all that. Or are you just going to ask Mycroft?”

Sherlock practically growled at the mention of his brother. “John surely you know me better than that by now. I don’t need his help for something this simple.” The detective paused for an instant before quirking and eyebrow at John and asking, “Although since you choose to mention my dear brother, would you care to tell me what he wanted with you this afternoon?”

John gave a small surprised chuckle at this question, “I don’t know why I am even remotely surprised that you know that, how did you deduce it?”

“Impressions on the chair where someone significantly larger than yourself was sitting, along with those small rounded impressions in the rug from where the tip of the umbrella was resting. Of course, this brochure I found was also highly suggestive,” Sherlock replied, handing John a glossy pamphlet for what he assumed was the substance abuse treatment facility that Mycroft had mentioned earlier.

“I didn’t even realize that Mycroft had left any information,” John said as he flipped through it briefly. “I am sure you can deduce why he was here. He offered to help me get Harry placed in this facility if I can convince her.”

“Ahh… Do you think you can convince her?”

“I don’t know but I have to try,” John said dropping into his chair, not ready to have this conversation with Sherlock. He was certain that Sherlock wouldn’t approve of his trying to help Harry again, even though she was John’s sister.

“Well perhaps this time she will consider taking your advice. Although the facility is staffed by the leading idiots of the mental health profession, all of whom I easily deduced to have family, marital, or emotional problems themselves, they may perhaps be of use to your sister,” Sherlock commented, causing John to start in surprise and look at his husband sharply.

“You… You don’t object?” he finally asked.

“Of course not. As I mentioned that first night at the flat, you should take advantage of any bribe my brother offers, even if the bribe is not something of monetary value which we could split. I am sure I can come up with some highly amusing reports for you to give to Mycroft in return for his generous token,” Sherlock teased.

John smiled. “Unnecessary. I told Mycroft I would find the money to pay for her treatment, assuming I can convince her. He is just providing me with the strings to get her into the facility; I am going to work to raise the money to pay for it myself. No spying in return is necessary.”

John was startled at Sherlock’s response to this statement, as the genius growled and suddenly strode forward and knelt next to his chair. “And you agreed to this nonsense? John, you will be paying off the bill for years!”

“Sherlock. Sherlock calm down,” John said laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Don’t worry, I will take out a loan or something, so I will owe the bank instead of your brother. I will just have to be more consistent about picking up shifts.”

Sherlock frowned. “Unacceptable. You would be unavailable to help me with the cases for years if you tried to pay it off with shift work. Not to mention the damage it would do your mental health to work at those boring facilities day in and out. We will simple pay for it out of our joint savings account. If there is not enough in there I can simply take a few more cases from the rich and boring to cover the costs.”

“Sherlock, you can’t do that. That money is yours, I told you that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous John. You are my partner in the work. We just discussed a few days ago. Half that money is yours by right, yours to do with as you wish. Even if you needed to use all of it, I certainly don’t care as I don’t have any use for the money outside my experiments.”

John’s mouth dropped a little, and his fingers squeezed a little tighter around Sherlock’s arm, trying to convey his thanks without words, honestly flabbergasted by Sherlock’s offer. He knew that money was unimportant to Sherlock, but this was still an insanely kind offer and just drove home to John how much Sherlock valued their friendship, something John hoped he never took for granted or advantage of.  John gave another small squeeze of Sherlock’s arm before finally answering, “It’s a moot point unless I can get her to agree to go, but I will really consider it, alright Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him closely, obviously trying to evaluate John’s truthfulness, before nodding curtly and getting up to move away. “Now then, back to the case. The wait for data from the bowling alley is irritating but we have other avenues to explore tonight.”

“The crematoriums?” John asked, gathering himself and then getting up to head to the kitchen to make yet another cup of tea and see if he could find some dinner for himself.

“No. I have determined that following that line of inquiry is not going to be productive at this time. To begin with, we have not actually determined whether the killer has access to a crematory, and as the research you did for me showed, there are simply too many of them with far too many people whom have access to the crematoriums to even begin a realistic search. No, that will have to wait until we have more data that indicates a stronger link.” Sherlock answered as he quickly restacked the piles he had dislodged on to the floor earlier.

“I think the next step is to look into the post-disappearance finances of the other couples,” Sherlock said as he continued to expound while organizing, “since we know the killer was moving the Davidson’s money, that police officer with the trust fund, around for a significant amount of time after he abducted them. I want to see if he did this with any of the other couples, particularly the Ashdowns. As the kidnapper made it look like the husband ran from a murder charge he may have moved or withdrawn the money to keep this story intact. Also the last couple, the Langsdales, Mr. Williams’s daughter. He only took them three weeks ago. If he wants to keep his cover story intact with Mr. Williams raising a fuss about them disappearing he may be moving the money around to confuse the police.”

“Alright. That makes sense. Did you ever come up with a reason for why he moved around the Davidsons money for so long?”

“Possibly but additional information is still required,” Sherlock answered from where he was settling in at the table in front of John’s laptop. John frowned, and then shook his head; it wasn’t worth the argument tonight, and it wasn’t like he needed it right now anyway.

“Alright, since I am obviously not going to be hacking into any financial institutions, what boring research project are you going to have me do tonight?”

“Ah, my dear John, I have an entirely fascinating job for you.” John could hear the amusement in Sherlock’s voice, and was instantly on alert. “Honeymoon plans, husband, honeymoon plans. In order to keep our cover intact we need to start coming up with believable plans for our honeymoon. Mrs. Hudson has already inquired several times about our plans, and even though she is easily distracted from this topic she is unlikely to remain the only one wishing to know our plans.  Therefore in order to prevent a gap from forming in our cover story you are going to plan our honeymoon for several weeks from now so we can provide that information to our overly nosy family and acquaintances, as well as possible one serial kidnapper.”

“Sherlock, really?” John said with a sigh as he started boiling some pasta, “I don’t think anyone would expect you to do anything as normal as plan a typical honeymoon.”

“John…” Sherlock whined. “We need to keep our cover story intact.”

“Alright, alright. I will see what I can come up with for plans. Any special requests?”

“Hmmm… I would prefer nothing excessively touristy and a minimum of three weeks from now as we still have a case to finish.”

John chuckled to himself, “Sherlock, you know we aren’t actually going on this trip don’t you?”

“Why not? A vacation would certainly do you good. Between your shift work and the cases you have not had more than a day or two off since my return. And once the case is over if nothing else an escape from the hoi polloi would be welcome.”

“Seriously. Mr. My Brain Will Rot without cases, wants to go on vacation?”

Sherlock sighed, “John, even I occasionally need to have time to defragment and clean up my hard drive, especially after this last year and half.”

John turned and looked at his flatmate, not sure if he was more shocked by Sherlock’s admission that vacations might be useful or by his admission that the last year and half was stressful and might have actually affected Sherlock. “Okay. One vacation to escape from the hoi polloi and to defrag coming up. Just as soon as I have some dinner.”

Sherlock nodded and waved an absentminded hand in John’s direction as John continued throwing together his dinner.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

The rest of the evening went rather well. After John finished his meal, which Sherlock declined even tasting, something John let slide since Sherlock had just eaten yesterday, John pulled Sherlock’s laptop out of the rubble of paperwork spread about the sitting room. John then proceeded to amuse himself by tossing out honeymoon suggestions at Sherlock as the man attempted to track the other victims’ financial records. For whatever reason the detective actually tolerated the game as he also threw out data about the victims to John, which John was of course expected to record.

Sherlock eventually determined that all of the couples had some movement in their finances after their disappearances. In most cases the accounts were emptied and transferred to new ones set up in a joint account in a small bank in their supposed country of destination. After that, the money would just sit there without any activity for six to twelve months and then be drained and closed, and Sherlock was unable to track any transactions after this point. The only two exceptions were the Davidsons that Sherlock had already told John about and the Ashdowns.

“This is fascinating John. Something must have gone terribly wrong in his attempt to kidnap the Ashdowns. Not only is this the only case in which blood was found, so the police actually know that someone has been killed, he also broke the pattern with the financial transactions.”

“Yes?” John asked distractedly.

“Oh, yes. Instead of transferring the funds, he left the money,” Sherlock said hopping a little from foot to foot as he stood excitedly in front of his case wall. “I suspect that he couldn’t convince Derek Ashdown to provide the account passwords once he had killed Pamela. No leverage. It creates another hole in the theory that Derek Ashdown fled the country. If you were fleeing the country forever, would you leave behind five thousand pounds?” Sherlock asked and then sped onward without bothering to let John reply. “Of course you wouldn’t, particularly if you had no other source of income with which to ensure your escape.”

“Alright. So why the variation in the Davidsons case, before he returns to his original pattern of transferring the money and letting it sit for a while before stealing it? And why not steal it in the Davidsons case? Didn’t you say all the money was still sitting in the accounts?” John frowned in thought as he added slowly, “In fact, didn’t you say he kept the money moving around and looking active up until recently?”

“Excellent question John,” Sherlock replied, turning to face him with a large smile on his face. “In fact I have even determined why the kidnapper kept the money moving so long. Mr. Davidson’s great-aunt was looking for him. I discovered that she raised him for several years in his youth and they had practically a mother-son relationship prior to his parents reconciling and bringing him back home. When he disappeared without contacting her, she apparently became suspicious, refused to believe the police report, and hired her own private detective. The man was a complete incompetent and a waste of her money. He failed to find anything useful, but his feeble attempts to track them did keep the killer moving the money around until she passed away late last year and the private detective stopped checking the accounts.”

“How did he know that someone was looking for them?” John asked mildly puzzled. “It’s not like a P.I. would be as easy to track as a police investigation.”

“Ahh, John simplicity itself. The killer had a fraud watch on all the accounts he set up. The banks themselves notified him of any queries. Sadly due to shoddy police work, since the Davidsons case none of accounts have ever had a single query. I believe he lets them lay idle until he is comfortable that there is unlikely to be any excessive scrutiny, and then removes the funds for his own use. I suspect that the money is still sitting in the Davidsons accounts because even though the aunt has since passed, he is worried that the accounts may again be examined in the future due to the man’s future inheritance. He probably thinks, correctly in fact, that continued activity in the accounts or removing the money from the accounts would put him at risk of being found.”

“Is there a risk that your snooping around the accounts will trigger the alerts and risk telling this guy that we are looking for him?” John asked, mildly concerned.

“John, really. I am not an incompetent private detective. I can examine bank accounts set up by a pathetic kidnapper without leaving a digital fingerprint.”

John held up his hands defensively. “Truce Sherlock. I apologize for questioning your abilities at digital sneakiness.” He chuckled at the look of disgust on Sherlock’s face at John’s words. “I should also tell you that I have planed the perfect vacation. The Saint James Club in St. John’s Bay in beautiful Antigua.  Plenty of sun, sand, and quiet. Exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“Sounds slightly touristy, John,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh yes, or it would be if it were more in season. This time of year is the slow period. The club will only be half booked, so we can be sure it will be somewhat quiet. I can book us rooms overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I promise not the beachfront ones which will be busy. I can learn how to windsurf and dive, and you can defrag and reformate your hard drive in the shade on the beach, wearing the highest SPF sunscreen I can find you.  There are even a few local ruins to explore, and if we get very adventurous, we can go zip lining in the rainforest.”

John laughed at Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. “Hey you specified one vacation away from the hoi polloi that would appear to be a honeymoon. Who could claim a vacation in Antigua with an ocean front view is not honeymoon material?”

“Well it would certainly meet Mrs. Hudson’s requirements,” Sherlock replied, considering John’s words, “and securing a few tropical poisonous tropical plants may be useful for some of my research.”

John laughed, “Sherlock you know customs might not approve of you trying to bring poisonous plants back into Britain.”

Sherlock waved his hand abstractedly as he continued looking at John, obviously in deep thought. “Not a problem, I can use my status as a researcher at St. Bart’s to obtain a permit to bring them with me. Additionally, learning the muscle control involved in windsurfing may be interesting for my ongoing study in the changes that specific routine activities bring about to bone and muscular development. Did you know John that forensic anthropologists can identify ballerinas and tennis players from the changes to their bone structure from those activities?”

“Yeah Sherlock, actually I did, both from medical school and from occasionally listening to you,” John said with an indulgent smile. “So settled then? We are going to tell Mrs. Hudson and anyone else who asks that we are headed to Antigua for our honeymoon.”

“Yes, do you need the card to book the room and the aeroplane tickets?”

“You actually want me to book this?” John said surprised, thinking Sherlock had just wanted something with which to distract Mrs. Hudson.

“Of course John. As I said, gaps in our story may alert the kidnapper if he should notice us. Some time away from the Kitty Rileys of the world would also be an excellent reason in and off itself,” Sherlock replied evenly, not looking up from his laptop.

“Alright, where’s your card?”

“Wallet, mantel.”

John sighed as he got up to retrieve the card. At least this time he wasn’t pulling things out of Sherlock’s trousers or coat while the genius was wearing it. John frowned in confusion as he inspected the wallet-less mantel. “Sherlock, your wallet isn’t on the mantel. Any other thoughts?”

“Hmmm? Oh yes, I forgot, back right pocket.”

John’s sighed and stalked over to where Sherlock still sat at the table, his fingers clattering away on the laptop. “You know one of these days I am going to convince you to record in that mind palace of yours that for most people pulling things out of other’s trouser pockets is an invasion of personal space,” John finished with a growl. As John slid his fingers into the pocket, snagging the wallet, he was very careful not to allow his fingers to linger, or touch more than was necessary.

“Useless data John, as I would not allow the average person to retrieve items from my pockets.”

John wrapped his mind around this odd sentence for a moment and then felt a small surge of warmth as he realized that Sherlock’s words could be taken as a compliment, in a warped sort of way. “As long as you are not letting the average person do it, I suppose I can let it go for now,” John said, keeping his tone light, as he settled back down to book his honeymoon trip, all the while smiling softly to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: Thank you once again to all the readers who take the time to review, you all have been amazingly kind and helpful. I also appreciate the kindness of everyone who kudo's, bookmarks, and subscribes, it really warms my heart to know you like the story that much. 
> 
> Once again thanks to the Amazing Ivory Winter, without whom this story would be stuck in the dark corners of my mind.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	12. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter, Who I Tortured Extensively This Chapter - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 12 Light

Nine o’clock Wednesday morning found John shaking hands with a beautiful woman in her mid-forties to fifties who could pass for Katharine Hepburn’s double.  Mrs. Burns, the CEO of the corporation that owned the bowling alley, was instantly in John’s good books for her straightforward, good-humored attitude as she guided John by the elbow her office’s lounge area where a tea service was waiting for them. Sherlock just barely bothered to greet their host with a cursory nod that was just this side of polite, before he flopped unceremoniously into a chair next to John.

“Dr. Watson, I do appreciate you taking the time to come and meet with me,” Mrs. Burns said with an open smile as she settled in across from them.  John absentmindedly noticed that she sat closer to John than Sherlock causing John to wonder what exactly Sherlock had said yesterday if the woman was avoiding Sherlock to that extent in her own office. She continued after hesitating, “Your husband was … a tad unforthcoming about why he felt that I should release my employees’ confidential information to him.”

John had discussed their options with Sherlock prior to their arrival and the detective had assured him that they couldn’t risk giving her the true reason about why they needed the information. After a heated debate during the taxi ride over, whispered to stay under the gossipy driver’s radar, John had persuaded Sherlock to let him narrow the focus of their request slightly. The end result was that John only needed to convince her to release any information about those employees who had worked at the alley in the last two years that were over twenty-two years old, and that was just to give them a margin of error in their research. Sherlock estimated that anyone under twenty-two at this point would have been seventeen years of age or even younger at the time of the first killing. And although Sherlock had confirmed John’s belief that serial killers could be active that young, young serial were unlikely to display the organized and in control behavior that their criminal had demonstrated.

John leaned forward in his chair towards the woman, trying to project confidence, as he replied, “It’s a bit sensitive. We are looking for victims.” John felt that this was a safe if somewhat misleading response, as they were actually looking for a link to the killer here, although the eventual goal was to hopefully find the bodies of the victims that they presumed were dead.

Mrs. Burns frowned slightly as she considered John’s words. John noticed out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was doing a good job of not appearing to be paying close attention to the conversation as he poured tea for the three of them, as she asked, “What kind of victims?”

“The kind that wouldn’t say much,” Sherlock said without looking up, which again John supposed was true while being entirely misleading.

“Ahh… okay,” she answered slowly, obviously not knowing what to make of Sherlock’s reply. “I am sorry, I am afraid I still don’t understand,” she continued, turning to John again with a confused look on her face, her hand almost automatically accepting the cup of tea that Sherlock handed to her and then John.

“Mrs. Burns, I’m sorry, but we really can’t tell you more than that. This is a tricky situation and it would be easy to accidently make it more complicated.” John put a hand forward to touch her arm briefly in a conciliatory manner as she started to object, “I’m not trying to suggest in any way that you would do or say anything on purpose, but the case we are investigating is very sensitive.”

Mrs. Burns nodded slowly as she contemplated John’s words. “Alright, I suppose I can understand that, but I still feel that it is inappropriate to turn over my employee’s files to you, particularly as you are not the police and you don’t have a search warrant.”

“We wouldn’t need everyone, Mrs. Burns, Sherlock thinks we could safely limit ourselves to just people who have worked for you at the bowling alley or in the corporation headquarters that interact with the bowling alley in the last two years who are twenty-two or older.” 

The CEO’s face wrinkled slightly as she considered the request. “That does rather dramatically decrease the amount of people affected, most of the employees I hire to work at the alley are students working part-time. There are probably only three or four people working at the alley who meet your criteria, and the alley itself is just a small part of the corporation and doesn’t require much contact here at the headquarters. Hmm… I might be willing to give you name and contact information for those workers, but I won’t provide you with any other private information about them,” she finished as she leaned forward, her whole attitude showing determination.

John stole a quick look at Sherlock who was frowning, obviously not satisfied with this answer. Sherlock had told John, in no uncertain terms, that he would need copies of their work hours in case any of their work schedules contributed to alibis for one or more of the earlier kidnappings, and as an attempt to determine if they could have met the couple. John smiled cautiously at Mrs. Burns before asking, “I don’t suppose we could also get a copy of their work schedules? That would almost be more useful for us than their addresses,” John finished, assuming Sherlock was sneaky enough to find addresses for the employees once they had their names if Mrs. Burns balked at giving them both pieces of information.

Mrs. Burns leaned back slightly in her chair as she reflected on John’s request. “I can’t see any problem with providing you with their work schedules, it’s not exactly confidential information.” Mrs. Burns suddenly smiled at John, “If you give me a moment, Dr. Watson, I will have my assistant compile that information for you and Mr. Holmes.”

As Mrs. Burns exited the room, John noticed that Sherlock suddenly sat up straighter, his presence instantly becoming more prominent, which is when John realized that Sherlock had somehow managed to make himself inconspicuous. He had to force himself not to stare as he was once again astounded by Sherlock’s acting ability.  For his temporary spouse (sadly) to conceal his own remarkable personality so thoroughly was almost beyond John’s comprehension. 

Sherlock frowned, fixing John with the unwavering gaze John recognized as Sherlock attempting to read his mind once again.  The detective finally shook his head, huffing out his results, “Try not to be silly, John, of course I can make myself unobtrusive when absolutely necessary, it is an invaluable tool in a detective.” Sherlock snorted as he continued, “That woman was obviously attracted to you. It seemed reasonable to deduce that if all her interactions today were with you, and those interactions went positively then she would be willing to provide us with the required information.”

John shook his head ruefully. “I wondered why you were being so uncharacteristically quiet. And I hate to argue with your observations but Mrs. Burns was just being civil, probably just thrilled that I was being polite.”

Sherlock snorted at John’s words. “John, I have detailed the signs of attraction to you more than once, you really should be able to identify them by now. She touched your elbow as she escorted you to your chair, she deliberately chose to sit closer to you, she leaned forward towards you during the conversation, she smiled at you repeatedly during your exchange, and last but not least her pupils dilated as she talked to you. The woman was a short moment away from flirting with you, something I suspect she would have done if I wasn’t in the room.”

John sighed again, “Sherlock, I think I would notice if a woman as beautiful as Mrs. Burns was attracted to me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “John, your observational skills for non-medical matters are barely better than Lestrade’s. The woman does have some small measure of wit and was attempting to be subtle. She currently does not wish to offend me, as she likely fears me taking my information about her manager to the police immediately, instead of on her schedule which will allow her to exercise some damage control within her own house. Although, she would probably attempt what I believe is referred to as a ‘pass’ at you, if I was to leave you alone with her for a few minutes.”

“Sherlock, be serious, I doubt someone with her level of success is going to risk everything to start an affair with a married, middle-aged ex-military doctor who doesn’t even have his own practice. And if you are not careful you are going to sound like a jealous spouse.”

“John, I am not jealous,” Sherlock replied, apparently stung by the assumption of such petty emotion, “try not to be ridiculous. In order to be jealous one has to be concerned that the object of said emotion is at risk of being taken. Additionally, if you do not stop degrading my husband I am going to be forced to have words with you. I have mentioned previously you are considered a highly desirable mate; you are highly traveled and have led an exciting life even prior to joining me in the work, plus your general level of attractiveness alone would have made you tempting to that woman. She finds your life exciting and interesting, and your charming semi-flirtatious behavior with her earlier only encouraged her attraction.”

John enjoyed once again hearing himself described in such glowing terms by his friend even though he found it as surprising and unexpected as always. At the same time as he enjoyed the compliments a small hidden part of his heart clenched at Sherlock’s lack of jealously; of course he wasn’t worried about John being taken as he didn’t actually want him. John shoved that emotion as deep as he could and chose only to address the last sentence. “I was not flirting with her, I was attempting to be ingratiating so that she would ignore your behavior from yesterday and possibly give us the information.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s words. “I was not implying that your behavior was incorrect, John, in fact you did an excellent job. I would not have expected you to be quite so good at obscuring the truth. My skills must finally be rubbing off on you. Your manner and charm while doing so worked exceedingly well. I did not expect her to be quite so willing to give us the required information after her diatribe on my manners last…” 

Sherlock broke off suddenly and turned to face the door as it opened behind them. “Ahhh…, Mrs. Burns, you must have a most efficient assistant, she compiled that information very quickly.”

Mrs. Burns frowned very slightly, obviously looking for an insult in that statement, before she turned to face John more squarely, a smile crossing her features as she held out the packet of information. John groaned internally. Sherlock had been right; the woman was attracted to him. The detective would be unbearable about his correct deduction all evening unless he could find a distraction. John made himself smile as he stepped forward to take the packet. “Thank you so much, we appreciate your assistance with this situation. You are really helping a lot of people.” John took the packet, sticking it under his elbow, and then offered a hand to Mrs. Burns.

“I am glad to help, Dr. Watson,” she replied as she shook his hand, her thumb caressing the back of his hand as she continued, “please be sure to tell me what you find and call if I can be of any more help to you.”

“Of course, thank you,” John replied, unsure how to deal with the unwanted attention without risking the goodwill he had managed to create.

John was instantly relieved, and mildly surprised, when Sherlock suddenly stepped forward to place one hand on the small of John’s back, a motion John stepped sideways into, decreasing the space between their bodies in order to distance himself slightly but politely from the CEO. “We really must be leaving, Mrs. Burns,” Sherlock said briefly as he steered John towards the door, his whole manner subtly displaying possessiveness and very mild jealousy which had John’s head spinning slightly at the implied intimacy, while a small icicle lodged in his heart at the falseness of it all.

Sherlock kept his hand on John’s back all the way out of the building as he ushered him towards the street and into a cab. As they settled into the back, Sherlock’s hand darted out and he snatched the file, which he instantly started to peruse. Once John had gathered his thoughts, and his heart had slowed slightly, John asked, “So if you wanted my apparently natural charm to work on the woman, what was with the display at the end?”

Sherlock’s eyes were focused on the file as he flipped rapidly through the papers, his answer absentminded. “She was intending to call you to inquire about the progress of the case as a cover towards further development of a possible sexual relationship. The small display of my attention toward you and your response has convinced her that such an effort would be futile, therefore she will leave you alone, thus preventing her from becoming a distraction during the case.”

John surprised himself by laughing softly at the detective’s reasoning. The man was ridiculous; of course he would preemptively drive a woman away during a case to prevent her from interfering with the work. John supposed he really should be offended at Sherlock’s attempt to run his life, but he was just glad the man had done it in such a way that John wouldn’t have to deal with a mortally offended CEO if they needed more information from her later.

Sherlock frowned at him, obviously wondering about the laugh, before he shrugged, apparently deciding that it wasn’t worth pursuing. “Do you have any additional clinic work this week? Or are you done after this afternoon?”

“Done after this afternoon,” John answered, “Sarah doesn’t need me until next Tuesday. Why?”

“There are several small leads in these files. I want you to follow up on a few of them for me,” Sherlock replied. “I wanted to be sure that you would have the time tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow is fine, Sherlock. Just tell me what you need me to do in the morning,” John answered, smiling as he settled back into his seat, enjoying the confidence Sherlock placed in him to help follow up leads on such a convoluted and obviously intriguing case.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

The next twenty-four hours were a small disaster in John’s book. When he arrived home from the clinic that evening, Sherlock was deep into the case, as he continued his attempt to follow the funds from the accounts that had been emptied. Sherlock’s increasing frustration during the evening caused the detective to be excessively snippy at John.  The end result of the snapping and short temper was John growling in frustration at Sherlock and stomping up to his bed, before he was forced to strangle the genius for being a pompous arrogant git.

John’s informational gathering interviews on Thursday didn’t help Sherlock’s frustration levels any. Most of the people Sherlock had John interviewing were almost too young to even be considered as possibilities, and even then John was easily able to confirm alibis for them for one or more of the kidnappings. As the day wore on John was rapidly becoming as aggravated as Sherlock. In the end, Sherlock kept him running down leads all day, all of which went nowhere. It seemed like the more information they gathered the more their leads led them down blind alleys and dead ends. They couldn’t seem to find any connections that led between the victims and their unknown kidnapper at all.

When John finally got home from his last interview, he found Sherlock pacing in front of the case wall, muttering distractedly under his breath. He sighed obviously displeased while John shrugged off his coat. “John, finally, did you get anything from the last two interviews?”

“Sorry, Sherlock. Both of them have such solid alibis, and neither of them even recognized Mr. Williams’ daughter or his son-in-law,” John replied as he moved into the kitchen, desperate for some tea and perhaps a biscuit after running around London all day.

“I feared that was the case but I had hoped I had missed something. All of my research went nowhere as well. It turned out that in all of the banks from which the kidnapper actually stole the money, someone withdrew all of the money in person.”

“Shouldn’t that be good news?” John asked in confusion, hearing Sherlock follow him into the kitchen. “Banks are big on security cameras and IDs aren’t they?”

“True, but our kidnapper is once again proving his intelligence. I contacted all of the banks as Lestrade and got them to e-mail me copies of their surveillance videos from the time in question. Although it is likely the same person making the withdrawals, he managed to prevent his face from being seen on the surveillance and therefore facial recognition software is useless.” As Sherlock expounded he slammed photos that were apparently printed out from the surveillance feeds on the counter next to where John was preparing his tea. “Each video also shows a man of differing heights, weights, and in the three tapes that show color the man had different hair colors. He obviously wore different height shoes, or changed how he stood or a combination of both to disguise his height, and weight as well as his hair color. The only useful information I can determine from them is that he is a white male, twenty-five to thirty-five years of age. And the age determination is mostly based on the tellers’ admittedly vague remembrance from the second to last case,” Sherlock finished, frustration apparent in his voice and mannerisms.

“I don’t suppose they are close enough in appearance to convince Dimmock this time that the cases are actually tied together?”

“Unlikely, but also unnecessary as Lestrade will be back tomorrow and he will be much easier to convince than Dimmock,” Sherlock answered with a negative shake of his head. “Although at this juncture it appears entirely pointless to approach him with the information as I am rapidly running out of lines of inquiry.”

John was startled at the level of frustration in Sherlock’s voice. It was unlike him to admit to irritation at not being able to solve a case instead of excitement at the puzzle. He finally responded with, “You know, I am sure Lestrade will just be glad to have the information that this serial killer is out there. It’s not like the police are even aware that he exists. That has to be an advantage in finding him. Not to mention, Lestrade can get the word out to other cities, maybe he has done this in other cities, and that will provide fresh leads.”

Sherlock groaned, “Fine. I suppose you are correct. If nothing else, it will point out the incompetence of the officers who made the initial investigations.” As he turned and headed to the living room John heard him muttering under his breath, “Need to defragment and delete extraneous information.”

As Sherlock wandered back into the sitting room he picked up his violin before positioning himself in front of the window. John was surprised to hear actual music coming from the violin.  He quickly grabbed his cup of tea and plate of biscuits to go into the sitting room, settling in his chair to watch the genius play. Watching Sherlock play the violin was a joy in and of itself. When he actually played, instead of just torturing the poor thing or meditating with it, he threw his whole being into the playing, the emotions he claimed not to have coming through loud and clear. When he played fast pieces he tended to move around the room, almost dancing and whirling with the instrument, and one could almost feel his soul trying to escape its bonds as he tried to play away his frustration at people’s stupidity or at the irritating boredom of his life.  When he played slower tunes like tonight, he would sway with the music gently, often with his eyes closed or unfocused, staring off into the distance. John wasn’t always sure what brought on the slow contemplative playing but tonight he thought he knew. As he watched Sherlock play, he could almost see him moving things about the case around in his mind palace, his eyes occasionally flicking to the case wall with its now invisible bullet-ridden smiley face.

John watched for almost a half hour as Sherlock played, his violin running through bits and pieces of music. He would play a small stretch of one piece and then switch to something completely different. John thought he recognized small snippets of Bach and Mozart – although even after knowing Sherlock for so long his abilities to identify specific composers was still severely limited. No matter what Sherlock was playing however, this evening it carried a haunting undertone. At the end of the half hour, an entirely too short amount of time to John’s thoroughly entranced eyes and ears, Sherlock finished flourishing his bow, before dropping like a stone to lay on the couch, violin in his lap, bow on the coffee table.

John shook himself, almost coming out of a meditative place himself. He smiled at his flatmate who was now strumming the violin with the tips of his fingers, contemplating who knew what about the case. With a grunt, John shoved himself upwards out of the chair and he moved towards the sitting room table to dig his laptop out of the rapidly spreading disaster area the research from this case was creating. He wanted to start summarizing all the details and conclusions that Sherlock had found about the case before he forgot them. Lestrade had started asking him to give him copies of his notes after the first case with Moriarty. Between his case notes and what Sherlock explained to him, Lestrade was finding it less difficult to ensure that he had enough understandable information and evidence for the prosecution. It worked out well for everyone and helped keep Sherlock on Lestrade’s good side.  Keeping detailed case notes also made it easier for him to remember everything when he wrote them up on the blog, even if Sherlock did find his blog ‘a tad overly romantic'.

When John finally finished up his case notes an hour later, he stretched and looked over at his supine flatmate, relieved to see that he was continuing to look more relaxed, so he must have found a new thread to follow when he was messing around with his violin. As John opened up his internet browser and logged onto his e-mail account, he took a risk of getting snapped at for interfering with the detective’s thought process by asking, “You’re awful quiet over there, Sherlock. Did you come up with a new theory?”

Sherlock’s head swiveled to look at him, glaring slightly but the genius chose to answer, “Yes, I am considering the PI’s investigation of the Davidson’s disappearance. The killer ended the movement of the money very quickly after the death of his great-aunt, which means that in some manner the kidnapper was keeping a close eye either on the PI or the Great Aunt, or possibly both. If I can determine how he was following them, perhaps I can find another link to follow.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” John said, throwing a smile over at the detective, before focusing back on the laptop. John frowned and muttered to himself as he noticed his inbox was once again full. He was used to getting lots of e-mails after a blog post and from people trying to reach Sherlock for help on a case, but he didn’t usually have this much junk mail both in his inbox and in his junk e-mail filter. There were sixty-three messages in his inbox (according to his new message counter), fifty-eight of which were junk e-mails for credit cards (more debit, just what everyone needed), coupon websites (where were those before he had a steady job?), internet matchmaking services (hello, married – okay technically civil partnership), auto-clearance (who bothered to drive in London?), and even erectile dysfunction meds (something John did not have a problem with, thank you very much). Two of them were newsletters from the clubs they had joined, which John printed out and dropped on Sherlock’s lap, who looked at both briefly before crumpling them up and tossing them into the fireplace. Of the final two, one was from Stamford asking him out for a celebratory pint this weekend if he could bear to be away from his new husband that long, and another from Sarah confirming his work hours for next week.

Once he finally marked everything junk and then deleting everything in the junk buffer, he turned to his sprawling temporary husband and groused, “Sherlock, you are either going to have to use your computer magic and figure out how to stop all this junk e-mail from coming through once we finish this case, or set me up with a new e-mail address. All those stupid newsletters and online accounts you had me set up for all those bloody nightclubs, the Heathside, the bowling alley, and I think even that charity, must have sold my e-mail address to every damn spam e-mail list under the sun! I must be getting close to a hundred junk e-mails a day and my filter isn’t catching most of them.”

Sherlock suddenly bolted upright, his bare feet hitting the floor with a bang. “What did you just say?”

“Huh?” John asked, startled by his flatmate’s sudden movement, “what, that I am getting a hundred junk e-mails a day?”

“No before that!” Sherlock said excited as he stood up off the couch.

“Ummm… That the nightclubs, and those others must have sold my e-mail address to one of those internet sales list places?” John asked slowly, thoroughly confused.

Sherlock continued to stare at him fixedly for a long moment, before striding over to him, and landing a firm hand on both of his shoulders and pulling him up out of his chair until he was standing before Sherlock, all the while Sherlock’s gaze never left his face. John started stuttering at this behavior, which was stretching even Sherlock’s bounds of normal, “What? What did I say, Sherlock?”

“John Hamish Watson, you are the single best conductor of light on the planet. No scratch that, in the universe!” Sherlock announced in an excited voice, before his hands slid rapidly up to the sides of his face, and before John even realized what was happening Sherlock leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. Almost faster John had registered the sensation, Sherlock spun away diving into the pile of paper work. “That is a brilliant observation, John. What do all of these activities we have explored have in common?”

“Ummm….” John said, trying to gather his scattered brain cells and focus on Sherlock’s words instead of the unexpected kiss. “Their group activities.”

Sherlock threw him an exasperated look. “True, but not what I am going for, and how does that relate to what you were saying? Think, John! What’s the common thread between your complaint and all the activities?”

John frowned in thought, trying to follow where Sherlock was attempting to lead him. “I was ranting about junk e-mail I am getting because you had me create all those accounts.” John looked up suddenly at Sherlock as his mind caught up. “Oh… the internet. They all have websites and e-mail newsletters. But Sherlock, everyone has those nowadays. Businesses can hardly exist without websites and e-mail,” John objected.

“You are correct, John, but each of these groups didn’t just have a sign up for their personal newsletter, they had a mandatory questionnaire as part of their registration. Remember the activity questionnaire for the Heathside? Is any of that junk e-mail you have been getting for running shoes, hiking and outdoor activities?”

John tried to think back over the last few days to the e-mails he had cleaned out. “Yeah, I think some of them were, in fact I remember there was one for kayaks that I was tempted to open, but then deleted it. When would I have time to kayak, even on the Thames?”

“How about for other charities?”

“A few, but there are always one or two of them. I always just deleted those under the assumption that they are a scam of one kind or another,” John said with a shrug.

“You’re probably correct about most of them being scams. But do you see the common thread? The junk mail is being tailored to you,” Sherlock said, excited as he continued to pull papers out of the pile, before suddenly jabbing a finger at one of the sheets. “There, John, look at this. The corporation that owns all those nightclubs offsets the cost of the website by contracting with a direct marking corporation. That must be why the employees get a bonus when a customer signs up for an account. Every time someone signs up for an account and fills out that form the information is sold to the direct marketing corporation, who then sells your e-mail address to corporations looking for clients who might be interested in their products. Like sending kayak information to someone with an adventurous military background who works out.”

John considered Sherlock’s words for a moment, before asking, “But how does this help? I mean, it literally opens up our potential suspect pool to millions. The killer could be at any of the companies who buy the lists to sell their goods.”

“No, no. John, you missed the direct link. Think about it. How likely is it that all of these people with all of these disparate personalities were sold to the same corporation for targeted advertising, and that the information crossed the same desk?  Highly unlikely, right?” Sherlock asked, looking at him intently as John slowly nodded. “However, think about how much more probable it is that all of the information from the nightclubs went through one or two people at the direct marketing company.”

“That would seem to be a lot more possible,” John answered him slowly. “But what about all the other couples? Only three of the couples attended the nightclubs.  And didn’t you say that first night when you sprang this on me that one of the couples wasn’t involved in any of the activities we checked out?”

Sherlock’s grin widened, “Ahh… two very good questions and exactly why I need to do more research. I expect that what I will find is either all the groups we are investigating used the same marketing company, or if there are two or three marketing companies, the same individual worked at all of them.  As for the Davidsons you are correct, but what if the wife had signed up for one of those loyalty cards from a grocery store or a chemists?  At this point that particular link may be lost to time, but if we can link all the other couples we can deduce the theoretical linkage for the Davidsons”

John thought about Sherlock’s deduction, turning it over in his head, looking for holes in his genius flatmate’s logic, and was unsurprised when he didn’t find any. “Seriously, Sherlock, how do you manage to make those odd connections? I doubt that I will ever stop being amazed by how your mind works. No wonder no one but you made the link. Is that how he is stalking them? Does he plant a virus or something on their computers? Or is he tracking them in person”

“Likely, he sends them an e-mail that they will open and which loads a Trojan horse that lets him into their system. Once he’s in their computer, it’s not hard to follow someone’s life. People keep everything about their lives on their computers, their blackberries, their mobiles. And none of them are as secure as anyone would like.  Once he has their schedules it would take no effort to stalk them in person or break into their homes when they’re out  and gather more information, or to prepare for the actual kidnapping,” Sherlock finished, obviously excited. 

John couldn’t help it - he smiled as he shook his head at Sherlock’s enthusiasm at finding another way to track this predator. “So what’s next, Sherlock?”

“Well I suggest that you, my wonderful conductor of light, have some dinner and then get some rest. If my research goes well tonight, I should have narrowed the list of possibilities down one or two dozen individuals by morning.  With that small of a suspect pool it should be a simple matter to investigate their lives in depth quickly and discover our kidnapper,” Sherlock answered animatedly as he started reorganizing the piles with one hand, while appropriating John’s laptop with the other.

John laughed out loud at Sherlock’s exhilaration, “Alright, alright. I can handle that. You want anything to eat? You last ate what - Monday night at Angelo’s?”

Sherlock frowned at the interruption, but stopped to consider John’s words. “I had some toast Tuesday morning. I should perhaps eat some toast or a biscuit, need to not slow down my brain for a while.”

John frowned at the severe lack of nutrients in that suggestion, wishing once again that he could convince Sherlock that regular meals would actually increase his brainpower. “How about some pasta with steamed veggies, Sherlock? That should be light and the carbs and vitamins might give you an energy boost.”

“Fine, just a small portion.”

“Sounds reasonable.  One light meal of pasta and steamed veggies coming up,” John replied, hurrying into the kitchen to pull something together, thrilled that Sherlock was willing to eat anything with calories and vitamins while he was on a case. He focused once again on wondering if he could crush a vitamin-mineral supplement and hide it in the pasta sauce (unlikely Sherlock’s taste buds were ridiculously sensitive) as a way to determinedly keep his mind away from that sudden kiss. John wanted to wait and consider its meaning until later tonight when he was safe in the privacy of his own room and he could ruminate on it without anyone invading the privacy of his own skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, kudo, bookmark, and subscribe. You all encourage me to do better and improve myself. Thanks to those of you who pointed out grammar and Brit-pick errors. I really do love those polite tips, they help improve the story.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who was kind enough to put up with an insane number of changes to this chapter after I sent it to her for proofreading.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	13. Scuffed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 13 Scuffed

John bolted straight up right in his bed, one hand scrambling for a gun that hadn’t been there since Afghanistan, as his bedroom door noisily bounced off the wall, the overhead light snapped on with a pop, and Sherlock burst in announcing excitedly, “John! John! Get up, it’s almost six am. We have work to do!”

John watched blurrily, his heart rate slowly returning to normal; as Sherlock rushed over to his dresser and started unerringly pulling clothes from the drawers and closet.  As Sherlock’s selections landed rapidly on the end of his bed, John noted that he never once opened an unnecessary drawer, even as he was nattering away about how John really should learn to control his transport’s need for ridiculous amounts of sleep and throwing out something about a cab that would arrive in a half hour. John wondered sleepily if Sherlock had just deduced what was stored in each drawer and the closet, or if at some point the detective had been snooping out of boredom induced curiosity. John supposed that both were equally probable and it didn’t really matter either way as he pulled himself tiredly out of his warm comfortable bed. “Yeah, yeah, alright, Sherlock, come on, move so I can go shower and shave.”

“John! Really we don’t have time to waste on grooming. We have a lot of ground to cover today!”

John very carefully held back a sigh of frustration as he took his mad flatmate’s elbow and started tugging him to the door, snagging the clothes from the bed as an afterthought. “So I gather, but I will be of a lot more use to you after a nice shower and a shave to wake me up and allow me to feel more human. In fact you can make yourself useful and get me a nice cup of tea with some toast. Hmmm?”

Sherlock pouted but allowed John to tug him out of the room and down the stairs into the kitchen, John pretending to himself that he wasn’t taking peeks at Sherlock. The man was amazingly put together for so early in the day, instead of floating around the flat in his silk pajamas and dressing gown the detective was wearing what looked like tailor made black trousers and a red silk shirt that fit ridiculously well. If nothing else came out of this odd marriage of theirs at least John had found out where Sherlock got all the money for those ridiculous clothes. As John meandered into the bathroom, Sherlock called out, “Irish Breakfast blend is acceptable I presume?”

“Sounds fine,” John answered, shutting the door with a firm click before moving in front of the mirror, and groaning. As John grimaced at his own reflection the reflection grimaced back, showing a man who hadn’t managed to fall or stay asleep for longer than an hour or two at a time last night. His night’s sleep had not been disrupted by nightmares of Afghanistan, by Sherlock falling, or even by the more enjoyable dreams involving his flatmate (although those were rare and tended to be short as even his subconscious seemed to believe that he didn’t have chance with the annoying detective). No, what had kept him up all night was trying to figure out why Sherlock had kissed his forehead. They didn’t have an audience so Sherlock couldn’t have done it as a planned part of their cover, like the kiss in the bowling alley, or on his hand at the registrar’s office. And as much as he wished it, his wonderfully irritating husband had informed him repeatedly of his disgust of the softer emotions.

After a long night of tossing and turning between cat naps (some of which had included the beginnings of a few tortuously lust fueled dreams – that weren’t even long enough to enjoy), John’s working hypothesis was that in a fit of excitement Sherlock hadn’t even realized that he had kissed him. Sherlock’s behavior, especially when he was excited by a puzzle or an interesting discovery, was particularly idiosyncratic and often didn’t meet any social norms.  John had seen Sherlock dance around their sitting room and practically pick Mrs. Hudson up off the ground in his excitement about the newest suicide on their very first case. John himself had been swung around in circles when Sherlock thought his memory needed jogging, and had been the casualty of an attempted drugging. And then there had been the fistfight with the detective just to make himself look like the victim of a mugging. Heck, Sherlock had married him just to solve a case, what sort of rational person thought that was even remotely appropriate behavior? So it was entirely possible, perhaps even reasonable, to believe that it, the kiss, was just an odd expression of his delight at finally connecting the dots.

In the early hours of the morning, when his heart was trying to convince his brain that perhaps Sherlock might have some deeper feelings than friendship for him, another possibility occurred to him. Sherlock didn’t just act those parts he did for cases; he immersed himself in the role he was playing, becoming at least for a while that person. If he couldn’t, John suspected that Sherlock never would have survived the time he was hunting the remains of Moriarty’s empire. If Sherlock was deep into his husband role it probably simply hadn’t occurred to him that it wasn’t necessary to act like that when they weren’t in public. Whatever the reason, John was sure it had nothing to do with any emotion other than Sherlock’s pure excitement at new data, never mind what his desperately craving heart wanted to believe.

John forced himself to shake off his painful thoughts and get ready before his flatmate decided that he wasn’t moving quickly enough and barged into the bathroom to update him on whatever he had discovered during the night. Fifteen minutes later John moved into the kitchen still drying his hair, pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock had both tea and toast ready for him, and they were still nicely warm. John took a few grateful drinks before offering to the practically vibrating Sherlock, “Mmmm…. Delicious. Thanks. So what did you find out? How many suspects? Where are we going in this taxi you were blathering about? And when do we break the news to Lestrade that you have found him another serial killer?”

“Lestrade can wait. We have something much more important to accomplish than updating those blind fools at the Yard,” Sherlock replied, his hand waving dismissively. “I have discovered something highly intriguing! Just as I suspected, the charity, the bowling alley, and London Heathside all use the same direct marketing company!”

John smiled, caught up in Sherlock’s enthusiasm as he leaned back against the counter with his tea and toast. “That’s great.” And then frowned slightly before asking, “Do I want to know how you managed to figure that out in the middle of the night and how many people you had to wake up to do it?” 

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, “An entirely unnecessary concern, John. The information was right under our noses the entire time. In the fine print on every one of the websites was a disclaimer in minuscule type listing the marketing company to which the information was sold.  In fact the charity listed it rather proudly, claiming that they had worked with them successfully for seven years, and that providing the company with the information had allowed them to keep costs of the fundraisers low so that more money could be donated directly to the cancer center.”

“So how many employees’ lives do we have to look through? It’s got to be a lot less than all those nightclub employees and acts. And why aren’t we telling Lestrade? Wouldn’t he be able to help with a lot of the basic informational gathering at least?”

If anything Sherlock’s smile got larger and significantly more wicked. “One, John. Just One.”

“Huh?” John asked, confused by Sherlock’s answer, unable to see how that related to Lestrade. “One what? One minute? One day before we tell him?”

Sherlock leaned toward him, John’s heart rate elevating, a flush rising as Sherlock’s eyes bored into him, the smile only John got to see flashing in his eyes a few short inches from John’s. “One suspect, John. Just one suspect.”

John took an instant to process the detective’s words as most of his brain cells focused on Sherlock’s brilliant smile. When it finally did catch up his mouth dropped open slightly. “Wait, what, one! How did you get it down to just one suspect overnight, Sherlock?”

Sherlock leaned back and laughed, low, deep, and joyful. “Oh, John, once you got me on the right trail it was so simple, yet intriguingly unique. Do you remember Jeremy, the irritatingly arrogant trainer telling us the Ashdowns were originally from Bishop’s Stortford?”

“Vaguely,” John replied, his brows drawn together in concentration as he tried to think back to the conversation and his case notes, ignoring Sherlock’s description of what was after all a reasonably nice man. “They had a fight with his family or something? What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing and yet everything,” Sherlock answered, the wicked grin lighting his face.

“A witty and enigmatic reply, Sherlock Holmes, but rather short on helpful details,” John scolded as he swallowed the last of his tea and toast.

“And yet entirely the truth,” Sherlock smirked, causing John to chuckle softly, the detective’s good mood being highly contagious. “Now, John, I promise all in good time, but we have a taxi to catch. So if I may request you to join me in donning our outerwear we will be on our way.”

John peered closely at the widely smiling madman, deciding that it wasn’t worth the effort to convince the detective to explain his plan now.  Instead John shuffled over to the door and quickly shoved his feet into his shoes and shrugged on his coat, finishing just as Sherlock swung his scarf around his neck in a typically dramatic fashion. Chuckling under his breath, he followed the detective out to the waiting cab.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Forty minutes later found John exiting the taxi no wiser than when he entered it. The only thing John was sure of was that they were somewhere in one of the multitude of new subdivisions in the northeast section of London‘s ongoing urban sprawl. The detective had refused to give John any more information on the long ride, even when asked with an excessive amount of praise in an attempt to stroke the detective’s ego. In fact other than giving directions to the cabby, the only words out of the detective’s mouth on the trip were a snarky comment about the obviousness of John’s failed attempt to get information.  John finally came to the conclusion that the detective was in the mood to show off and was waiting for the perfect moment. John decided to indulge him a little for now, although, he would keep a watchful eye out for trouble, as this was usually when things began to go sideways on them.

“Sherlock, where are we?” John called as he hurried after the detective, who was striding quickly to the old farmhouse in front of them that was surrounded by a well-kept and surprisingly expansive yard. Although the farmhouse was several generations old, there were several obviously new houses visible up and down the lane, with a half-finished house just beyond what John assumed was the property line. London was obviously expanding with a passion in this area. “And what are we doing here? How does this tie into the case? A new victim? This can’t be any of our couples’ homes, none of them lived out here when they disappeared.”

Sherlock smirked, turning with a flourish at the top of the steps to face John, announcing in a self-congratulatory tone, “You are absolutely correct, my dear Dr. Watson. Welcome to the home of Mr. Davis Reid. Avid gardener, computer technical support and programmer for a London based direct marketing corporation, and exceptionally well organized kidnapper and serial killer.”

John started for a moment, then jolted forward to grab the detective’s arm. “Sherlock!” John hissed purposely keeping his voice subdued, “What are we doing here without Lestrade? I realize that you find it impossible to leave a mystery alone, but I thought you were worried about frightening this man off?”

“John, relax. I would never jeopardize a case,” Sherlock said, a clearly fake indignant expression on his face. “Mr. Reid is not at home. Although he works from home three days a week, he is required to appear at the headquarters twice weekly. At this point he should be almost to his office for their weekly staff meeting. We could spend the entire day examining his house and he would be none the wiser.”

John shook his head in frustration but decided that it wasn’t worth arguing as Sherlock would obviously not be dissuaded from his planed search. “Fine,” he answered, giving in before a thought occurred to him. “How do you know so much about this man’s schedule already? And how did you figure out that he was the killer?”

“Simplicity itself. He actually provided me with all the information I required,” Sherlock replied, as he moved to the door and started picking the lock. “The website for the marketing company which employs him is detailed and extensive. I surmise that it is a marketing ploy to make the company appear upfront and above board. Whatever the reason, all the employees’ names along with a small personal history including what I believe is colloquially called an ‘amusing anecdote’ is provided in an effort to further personalize their business. They do stop short of giving out addresses, and non-work contact information, but there is more than enough information to start a detailed search. Care to guess, John, from where our intrepid Mr. Reid originally hails?”

John glared slightly cross at the detective’s back, wanting to tell the genius to get on with it before something Sherlock had said before they left the flat came back to him. “You said that this had something to do with the Ashdown’s, so Bishop’s Stortford?”

“Excellent. In fact Mr. Reid purchased this home just three months after the Ashdowns arrived in London. Now in and of itself this information means nothing. Bishop’s Stortford is certainly not a tiny hamlet, so it would not be unreasonable for people to be moving in and out of the city frequently. Ah ha!” Sherlock cried suddenly, interrupting his own deduction as the front door slid open, and he rose to enter into the house, John following close behind.

The house was nothing spectacular to John’s eye but was in good shape and clean, especially for a bachelor pad. As John followed Sherlock through the front hallway into the living room, the thing that struck him most was how stark and cold the room appeared. Beyond the basic furniture, a couch and chair, a wall mounted TV with an expensive-looking home theater system attached, and a desk where there was a set up for an absent laptop, there was nothing in the room.  No pictures, no plants, no blankets or pillows, no knickknacks, or memorabilia of any sort. Not even a generic wall painting, and the walls were a basic eggshell white. The room didn’t reflect any sort of personality at all. John had felt more warmth and character in cut-rate budget motel rooms.

“It’s rather… empty. Almost feels like no one lives here,” John commented. “So since you evidently found the move more than slightly coincidental, what else did you find out about Reid?”

Sherlock threw John another quick grin as he moved out of the room and up the hallway stairs toward the second story. “Just a few more interesting coincidences. Mr. Reid happened to attend the same secondary school and sixth form as the future Mrs. Ashdown. He was then accepted to Cambridge to study in computer technologies. Instead of taking this offer he chose to go to the significantly smaller university that Pamela attended, and although he excelled in all his courses, the degree from this university certainly did not help his career. Nor did leaving the rising computer technologies corporation in Bishop’s Stortford five and half years ago to join a small London direct marketing firm as the entirety of their computer technologies staff.”

“It does seem rather unlikely, but it certainly doesn’t prove anything. Plus weren’t the Ashdowns the second or third couple taken? And why follow her? Were they a couple at some point?” John asked as he peered around the bedroom they had entered. Like the living room, there was not much personality here, although it also had an expensive home theater system, not as extensive as the one downstairs but fancier than John was used to seeing in bedrooms. It seemed to John that the only thing this Davis Reid was really interested in was electronics.

“They were the second couple taken, and as far as I was able to determine overnight Pamela and Reid were never a couple, in fact they appear to have been just barely aquatinted,” Sherlock answered from the closet, where he was managing to rifle through the clothes without overly disturbing them and leaving evidence of their presence. “That is one of the things I am hoping to determine today. If in fact this man was following her, which I believe he was, what did he hope to achieve? And if he is the killer I believe him to be, your question is apt, why take them second if she was his actual goal? In fact why take any of the other couples at all?”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and strode out of the bedroom, turning down the hallway entering into another room. John hustled behind him to keep up, stopping in the doorway of what appeared to be a home office. There was yet another large wall mounted flat screen, but unlike the bedroom and living room there was no entertainment system attached to this one. This was the first room they had entered that had a touch of warmth in it. The walls were a nice deep brown and the desk was a large wooden antique. The room wouldn’t have looked out of place in any professional office.

“Bah, useless,” Sherlock announced, turning and knocking hard into John as he stood in the door examining the room. John fell backwards, hands flailing in a failed attempt to find something to grab to keep himself from hitting the ground. Sherlock’s hands shot forward and wrapped around John’s elbows, taking John’s weight, preventing the fall, and pulling him back onto his feet. Once John was stable Sherlock chuckled briefly, his hands still on John’s elbows, before he teased, “I do believe that we need to get your inner ear examined once this case is completed, my dear doctor. First I had to rescue you on the dance floor last Friday night, and here we are again today.”

John stared for a moment, stunned as his erstwhile husband didn’t often tease him, but then broke into giggles, enjoying the friendship the teasing implied along with the gentle pressure Sherlock’s hands on his elbows. After they had caught their breath, Sherlock slowly slid his hands down John’s arms to his wrists, holding them in a light grasp for a moment that seemed to last forever to John.  John’s heart rate started elevating as he stood frozen, not knowing what to make of Sherlock’s behavior.  John was positive that Sherlock had to be able to feel his pulse rate increase, and yet he found himself unable to move, completely entranced by Sherlock’s touch on his wrists and the soft grin on the detectives face. Sherlock finally gave John’s wrists a quick squeeze before dropping his hands away entirely, as he announced, “Come along, John, there is nothing of any use in this room.”

John took a deep breath, gathering himself together as Sherlock started to stride past him, deciding to ignore the behavior, at least for now, and hope that if the detective questioned him later about his elevated heart rate he could convince him that it was due to the adrenaline rush from housebreaking, rather than any other more dangerous emotions. John took another look around the room and then frowned, before calling “Sherlock?  How come you’re not checking this room out? It’s the first room that looks like anyone actually lives in it.”

“And that’s exactly why it is useless to check this room,” Sherlock answered as he strode back down the hallway, opening the last door on the landing, which turned out to be empty, with not even a bed or dresser. “The office is a front for his work. He set it up to look good for the cameras when he teleconferences with the staff. Warm, inviting. The persona he wants to project to the outside world. Nothing that is actually his is in that room. We need to find the basement access.”

Five minutes later they had found the door to the basement in the back of the kitchen pantry.  They trundled carefully down the bare wooden stairs to a room that to John’s eye was as empty as the rest of the house. Sherlock however seemed excited, whipping out his pocket magnifying glass, exclaiming, “Finally!”

John watched bemused as Sherlock started fluttering around the room, dropping to the cement floor to examine marks that meant nothing to John. The detective was practically crawling around the room, occasionally stopping to examine something more thoroughly. John watched the detective closely for a moment, attempting to examine the room himself and see what Sherlock saw when he noticed a door at the back of the basement behind the stairs. Curious, John opened it and moved inside, flipping the light switch which lit a bare bulb, to find a small four foot by four foot room that had the same cement block walls and cement floor as the rest of the basement. John was about to leave the room when something on the back wall caught his eye.

Moving over John looked closer at the wall discovering numerous holes, where it looked to John that something had been anchored into the wall. He examined it closely and found four groupings with three holes in each grouping, so whatever had been anchored into the cement block had been designed to hold a lot of weight. John was still frowning at them when Sherlock’s soft voice in his ear made him startle sideways into the wall, banging his bad shoulder, “Ahhh… well that answers that question.”

“Geez, Sherlock, give a guy a warning would you?” John groused, rubbing his shoulder. “Explains what?”

“Where he kept them,” Sherlock answered absently, his fingers running over the holes. 

John looked at Sherlock blankly, not following the detective’s train of thought. “Sorry, Sherlock, I still don’t get what you’re saying.”

“Really, John, and here I was thinking that your powers of observation were improving,” Sherlock grumbled. “These are clearly anchor points. See the scrape marks underneath, from something hard and metal banging against them. He had metal rings anchored into the wall. He probably chained them to the rings when he wasn’t …” Sherlock stopped abruptly to look up at John.

“When he wasn’t torturing them,” John finished softly. “He chained them in this windowless room when he wasn’t torturing or killing them.”

“Yes.”

John closed his eyes and took a calming breath, forcing down the rage that was trying to consume him. After several deep breaths he opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a hard look. “We are catching this bastard and he is going to pay for destroying all these lives,” John said with a snap, before adding, “now what were you poring over in the main room?”

Sherlock looked intently at him for a long moment, although once again what he was looking for was escaping John. He finally nodded and pulled John out into the other room by his coat. As they entered the room Sherlock started talking again, his excitement level rapidly increasing as he explained his deductions. “See those scuff marks here and here. Four in each location, both sets facing each other? They must be for chairs, two of them. He made them watch each other while he did whatever was done down here. He would have enjoyed this greatly. Not only did he get the pleasure of physically torturing one partner. He got the excitement of making the other person watch, thus mentally torturing them at the same time. Additionally although the chairs must have been heavy judging from the size of the scuff marks, there is no indication on the floor that he bolted them down. So it seems reasonable to conclude that he enjoyed watching them struggle with their restraints as well.”

Sherlock moved over to the far side of the room away from the stairs, and pointed at four more scuff marks in the concrete. These spread much further apart than the chairs. “Some sort of heavy wheeled table sat here, you can see where it was rolled back and forth repeatedly, damaging the concrete sealant. I do not yet have enough data to make a conclusion about its function.”

John followed as Sherlock moved back towards the center of the room closer to where the chairs had been. Sherlock gestured for the third time to the floor. “See these three circular scuff marks here, and there is another set of three on the other side of the room. These provide perhaps the most useful data in the room. Notice how the impressions are darker on the sides interior to the triangle they form?”

John nodded at Sherlock’s words, watching the detective’s finger trace the triangle they created. After a quick glance at John to confirm that he was following, Sherlock continued, “A tripod sat in both locations, undoubtedly to support a camera or video equipment. Reid is documenting the torture and presumably his killings as well. A permanent trophy if you will. If I can determine where he is storing these recordings or photographs that alone could reasonably provide enough evidence to convict him of his crimes, even if we are unable to determine what he did with the bodies.”

John stared at his husband, caught up in his words, in the sheer brilliance of this man who allowed him in his life. “Extraordinary.”

“Simple mathematics and spatial relations, John,” Sherlock answered dismissively, but John could see the small gleam of pride in his eye at John’s words.

“You said he probably kept records of the killings as well, do you think he killed them down here?” John asked.

“Difficult to determine. The concrete floor has been professionally sealed, and given Reid’s history of cautious behavior, probably more than once, so it is doubtful that is would have absorbed any traces of blood. Additionally, someone of Reid’s intelligence would have cleaned up after himself with bleach to degrade any DNA evidence. I do have a larger concern however,” Sherlock stated, causing John to look at him inquiringly. “Davis Reid could not have tortured and killed the Langsdales, Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law here. I suspect he didn’t bring the two couples prior to them here either. Those marks are old, and this basement has an air of disuse. He must have acquired a secondary location for some reason.”

John looked at the scuff marks on the floor, wondering just how Sherlock could tell that the marks were old, but decided against asking because he wasn’t in the mood for a detailed lecture.  As he looked around him he noticed the windows at the top of the basement walls, the faint sound of construction bleeding through them. “The construction. He couldn’t bring them here anymore because of all the new housing. If someone heard something and came snooping at the wrong moment…” John said, giving a shrug as he allowed the sentence to trail off.

Sherlock swiveled suddenly from where he was inspecting the wall to look at John, following John’s gaze up to the window. “Ah… Yes, that would be a concern for him.”

“Do you think this is enough to allow Lestrade to arrest him, or do we need more proof?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The information is entirely too circumstantial, and most detectives, and certainly no attorney, would accept scuff marks on the floor as proof of such a heinous crime.  Particularly without a body or any DNA evidence. However there is enough data to convince Lestrade.  We can use his contacts to look for additional cases, and search land records to see if we can determine his new shelter.  Additionally Lestrade, as opposed to Dimmock or some of the other DIs, will allow himself to be convinced not to interview him at least for a time, thus frightening him into hiding before he can be arrested.”

“I suppose it would be pointless to hope that he keeps his trophies here in the house?” John asked, wanting this man off the streets before he had the chance to either destroy more lives or disappear.

Sherlock answered as he started moving back up the stairs. “Unlikely as Reid appears to be entirely too intelligent to make such a basic error. Probable the photographic or video equipment is digital and he has the information stored on a private server which he can access through a secure internet site. Although his technical skills appear to be advanced enough that the site will be encrypted so that only he will have access. I will need to get a look at his laptop, or laptops, as he has numerous docking stations in this house.”

John sighed as they moved into the main hallway, watching as Sherlock locked the front door, John assumed in order to leave the house as they had found it, and then followed the detective as he strode back into the kitchen and led them out the back. “I suppose that would have been entirely too simple.”

John glanced around, noting that the back garden was just as orderly as the front. In the spring and summer it must be beautiful John thought, as he noted the neatly trimmed dormant rose bushes and hedges. “For a serial killer this man sure keeps a nice garden. You would think that between his day job and his time stalking, kidnapping, torturing, and killing people he would be too busy to have time to trim all those rose beds and bushes. I mean, even with all the heavy mulching, it must be a large project to keep this up so well.”

Sherlock moved off the bottom steps, moving a few paces onto the lawn before turning in a slow circle. “We won’t need to find his digital record anymore. You can call Lestrade now, and tell him to bring Toby. We have more than enough proof to convince him and anyone else,” Sherlock said slowly. “Look more closely at the flower beds, John.”

John looked again. There were the beds along the sides of the house that were currently appeared empty, they probably contained plants that flowered during spring and summer months.  He also counted three sets of perfectly pruned and mulched rose beds near the center of the large garden. Along the outer edge of the lawn were two perfectly pruned and mulched green bushes that John couldn’t identify.  After a moment John gave up trying to figure out what Sherlock wanted him to see and said, “It just looks like a flower garden to me, Sherlock.”

“It’s not a garden, John. The rose bushes and those two yew bushes are acting as grave stones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, kudo, subscribe, and bookmark. You all encourage me to do better and improve myself. Thanks to those of you who pointed out grammar and Brit-pick errors. I really do love those polite tips, they help improve the story. I also want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who as always pushed me to make this chapter and story better.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	14. Grave Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Story Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Chapter Trigger Warnings: Discussions and descriptions of buried bodies.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 14 Grave Evidence

An hour and a half later John stood in Davis Reid’s back garden, a few steps away from Sherlock and Lestrade, half listening to the consulting detective harangue the Detective Inspector with details of the case so far. Anderson and Donovan were hovering, much to John’s relief, several paces behind them, while the five of them watched a large bloodhound named Toby working his way across the grounds towards them and the various graves markers masquerading as flower beds. The red-coated bloodhound was even larger than John had pictured, dwarfing his small female handler, once Sherlock had explained exactly who the Toby was that John had asked Lestrade to bring. To John’s fascination, Toby had turned out to be one of Britain’s top cadaver dogs who had repeatedly proven his ability to sniff bodies buried up to 4-5 feet deep, even several years after the burial.

John had been glad that Greg was back from his holiday and able to take his call, because John wasn’t sure anyone else would have even listened to, much less believed, the rather confusing bare bones explanation of the case John had given an hour and a half ago. In fact, John was convinced that Greg still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what they had discovered, or how they had discovered it, but had just chosen to go along with it based on the combination of the words ‘serial killer’, ‘Sherlock’, and ‘Toby’. And of course, now the Detective Inspector simply looked progressively more harassed at Sherlock’s ongoing and detailed lecture which seemed to be undoing whatever stress relieving benefits the DI had gotten from his holidays.

John frowned as they watched Toby begin to move very quickly on his leash, leading his handler directly to the closest dormant rose bed, and lay down silently, looking expectantly at the woman holding his leash. Sherlock’s smile was fierce, practically feral, “Excellent, Lestrade,” he practically crowed, “Toby’s indication that there is a body present should almost be enough by itself to allow you to procure a warrant to excavate the garden, search the house and bring Mr. Reid in for questioning.”

Lestrade was silent for a moment, ignoring the genius, instead watching the handler direct Toby to search again. The bloodhound began scenting the ground again and within moments had moved over to one of the yew bushes and lay down. Greg sighed, turning around to face Donovan and Anderson as he ordered, “Donavon, call it in and get me a warrant to search the house and grounds, tell the judge we received a tip on a location that the body of….”

“Pamela Ashdown believed to have been killed 4.5 years ago,” Sherlock supplied at Lestrade’s questioning eyebrow.

Greg nodded continuing, “Pamela Ashdown was in this subdivision and a cadaver dog is confirming one or more bodies buried on the property of Davis Reid. That should be enough for the courts, Toby has an excellent reputation.” The DI pinched the bridge of his nose. “After that, Donovan, I want you to personally take a couple of PCs and go bring Mr. Reid in for questioning. Everything by the book, I don’t want any loopholes for his attorney to use to weasel him out of this if Sherlock is right about the number of people this man has killed.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance at Lestrade’s comment. “I would think by this time, Lestrade, you would realize that I know exactly about what I am talking about.”

John smothered a smirk watching Greg shut his eyes briefly, taking a breath and ignoring the irritated, and irritating, consulting detective.  Donovan strode off to complete her assigned tasks, her mobile snapping up to her ear, while Lestrade turned to address the forensic scientist. “Anderson, get your team out here and anyone else you need that can safely speed up evidence collection. We are going to have to consider the entire garden and house as a presumptive crime scene.”

Anderson nodded as they watched Toby lay down on yet another rose bed. “I need authorization for my crime scene techs to bring along the ground penetrating radar. I can use it to define the areas that we need to excavate more precisely and give us some idea of how deep we need to dig.”

Lestrade waved a hand in dismissal replying, “Fine, go.” After watching his subordinates move off to do their jobs, he finally turned back to Sherlock. “I think I heard you say in that sermon of yours that you found something in the house. Why don’t you show me what you found, while John goes with Toby’s handler to check the other beds in the side garden you mentioned?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, surprising John as he silently asked for John’s opinion of this plan, and John gave a short nod to indicate his approval. John quietly showed the handler to the garden on the side of the house where he and Sherlock had found another rose bed and several more yew bushes, he was glad to move from where he could see Donovan and Anderson talking on their mobiles. He was careful to limit his direct interaction in order to decrease the likelihood of him starting a fight, but it was always a near thing since their mere presence was enough to raise his proverbial hackles, and leave him highly irritable if no longer outright wrathful.

Intellectually John knew that the two of them had just been doing their jobs when they had passed their suspicions on to Lestrade and then to the Chief Superintendent when Lestrade had not been convinced. John knew that the consulting criminal had in all likelihood aimed and designed the entire kidnapping of the ambassador’s children specifically at them. It was their job to be suspicious, to question things, and Moriarty, evil bastard that he had been, had used their doubts, fears, and outright hatred of Sherlock to control their actions like a virtuoso conductor of a symphony orchestra.

Despite knowing all this, John didn’t care. Donovan and Anderson had known Sherlock significantly longer than he had, and dislike or not (okay, John admitted that it was closer to loathing) their history should have been enough to slow those doubts down. Not only had they seen Sherlock solve cases, but they also heard him explain, frequently in excruciating detail, the steps within those deductions, which, when broken down, were all completely logical. In fact, the two had had their personal lives, repeatedly and loudly deduced in public, details of their lives that they had to know Sherlock couldn’t have access to other than through his brilliant deductions. John was honest enough to concede that Sherlock often informed them of his deductions in the worst possible way, in order to make Anderson in particular look idiotic, so their loathing had more than reasonable ground, but John still felt that any semi-intelligent adult, particularly those in their line of work, should have been able to look past those prejudices.

John sighed, watching Toby lay down next to yet another rose bed, his thoughts still lost in his consideration of the past.  He admitted silently to himself that Donovan and Anderson’s actions before and after Sherlock’s fall probably weren’t enough by themselves to justify his continued ire, but their attitude after Sherlock’s exoneration certainly was. John had initially thought both of them had felt somewhat guilty about Sherlock’s supposed suicide.  Neither had attended the funeral (never mind that John would have thrown them out forcibly) but had also avoided John when he came down to the station to give his formal report on both Sherlock’s suicide, and the follow up from the kidnapping case. That guilt might have allowed him to eventually forgive them as he had Lestrade, but after Sherlock’s return neither Donovan nor Anderson had ever offered one word, one look, of apology to either John or Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock couldn’t care less about either of their opinions much less their respect, but John did, or at least he cared that the two apparently lacked the basic courage to admit their mistakes, no matter how well meaning.

John was shaken from his morbid thoughts by Donovan’s voice asking from behind him, “You know, I have known that you were a little off ever since I started reading your blog. I have to say though that even I wouldn’t have predicted that you were crazy enough to marry Sherlock Holmes.”

John didn’t bother to acknowledge this statement, pointedly ignoring her as she continued. “I suppose I should have known something like this was coming when you moved back in so quickly after that bastard returned. Didn’t you learn anything from that? When he faked his death for his own twisted reasons, I saw, we all saw how broken you were and don’t think I don’t know that he didn’t let you in on his little game either. It just shows just how little he really values you, doesn’t it. It also hasn’t escaped my attention that not only did he come out of that smelling like roses, but his fame, or perhaps I should say infamy has noticeably increased.  That sociopath you’re calling your husband is a user, and he will use you again and again until he is tired of you, and then he will throw you away. Again.”

John growled softly to himself, allowing this small expression of anger in a desperate attempt to stop himself from pounding her into the ground. He had managed to avoid an argument with either one of them for the last fifteen months. John certainly wasn’t going to lose control now and embarrass himself and Sherlock while on a case. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard worse constantly while his friend was gone, heck he heard worse from his own sister when he called her about the marriage.

Taking a deep breath to slow his heart rate and control his anger, John turned to face the Sergeant. “You know, Donovan, I always thought Sherlock was being his typical dramatic self when he said you were useless at even basic observation. It is utterly amazing to me that you can’t see by now that Sherlock is loyal to his friends and that the choices he makes, while unusual and difficult to understand for some, catch more criminals than you ever will.I find it hard to comprehend that even your brain missed the fact that Sherlock’s fall allowed him to completely destroy Moriarty’s criminal empire, something the Yard wasn’t even aware existed. I suppose that if you can’t even recognize that basic fact, why would I ever imagine that you could identify such simple truths as loyalty and friendship even when they are right under your nose. I should have realized that to you these are foreign concepts.”

Donovan gave a snort as she replied, “Friendship, yeah right, I’m sure that’s why the freak decided to marry you, bastard probably just wants to ensure that he has a permanently captive audience. Well, at least until you finally wise up and realize that Sherlock Holmes only does things that benefit Sherlock Holmes.”

“Donovan, I seem to remember having a conversation with you about interfering with my relationship with Sherlock shortly after we met. I will tell you this once more, just because you seem to have a poor memory. My relationship with Sherlock, and our marriage is absolutely none of your business,” John barked, his tone and body language falling effortlessly back into his military days as a Captain dispensing lifesaving medical orders in the field. “Now, I am sure I heard Lestrade tell you to go arrest Davis Reid. You know I think that would be a good idea, particularly since Toby has just lain down next to that rose bush over there. I think that means we have four separate rose bushes and four separate yew bushes acting as grave markers. That might just be a little more important than your useless vitriol,” John finished with a snap, leaving a slightly open mouthed Donovan behind as he stalked off, deciding to take a walk around the house to cool off and get out of the way of the small army of police officers and forensic technicians that were slowly starting to arrive and spread out chaotically around the grounds.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Forty minutes later found him significantly calmer, (having completely enjoyed discovering a valid reason to call Sally out), leaning against the back wall of the house whilehe watched Sherlock and Anderson having a ‘discussion’ about the order in which they should excavate the graves.  Sherlock was demanding that they start with the yew bushes since the ground penetrating radar indicated only one body below each, and Anderson wanted to start with the rose beds because each bed had been discovered to contain not one, but two bodies. John wasn’t sure it would matter in the end considering that it was rapidly becoming obvious that the sheer number of bodies meant that forensics was going to be here for several days. Lestrade wandered over to lean next to him on the wall, and after a quiet moment said in a soft voice, “I suppose I should take this chance to give you my congratulations on your marriage while Sherlock’s too busy to yell at me for interrupting the case with trivia.”

John chuckled slightly in response to Lestrade’s words while he wondered if Sherlock would consider the case closed enough to the conclusion to tell at least Greg the truth, but quickly decided he didn’t need the blistering abuse he would receive if he somehow risked Sherlock’s case by breaking their cover too early. “Thanks, Greg,” he answered before pointing his chin at the arguing pair. “You going to go back over there and break that up before it gets any louder?”

Greg rolled his eyes in fond exasperation while he answered, “As lead detective in this case, I am afraid that I have more important things to do at this particular juncture than determine which burial site to examine first.”

John gave a small laugh. “Coward.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “I beg to differ, I prefer to consider it an intelligent tactical retreat. Besides, given the number of bodies Toby and the ground penetrating radar have discovered, the Yard is sending over two more forensic teams to assist in the process of uncovering the remains. I’m sure that will give Anderson more than enough people and equipment to start opening multiple graves, which makes the whole fight moot.” Greg frowned, and it was clear to John that the reality of the sheer number of graves they were about to open was troubling his friend. After a moment the DI shook his head before addressing John again. “Anyway as I started to say, congratulations. I had no less than fifteen different texts last week on my holiday, telling me I had to read your blog or miss the story of the century.”

John softly chuckled again. “Well, I am sorry they bothered you on your holidays, but I am glad to hear that my readership at the Yard is still high.”

Lestrade gave a half smile, before looking back over at the rose beds where Anderson had turned to stalk off towards the other forensics teams at the front of the house,  with a smug-looking Sherlock sauntering along behind him. “I’d apologize for having you work on a case on what should be your honeymoon period, but you brought the case to me and Sherlock’s obviously thrilled with his puzzle. I have to admit that I was surprised when I read your blog post. I never would have expected Sherlock to be emotional aware enough to realize your importance in his life. In fact for all the speculation and betting around the Yard, I always maintained that you two were just good friends. It never occurred to me that you were a couple, much less considering marriage. In fact I think I might be a little hurt that you didn’t bother to tell me,” Lestrade said, pretending to be offended, “although knowing Sherlock, he probably assumed that I should be able to deduce it.  I guess I am as unobservant as your husband always claims.”

“Not unobservant, Lestrade. What I said in the blog was true, it took me a while to come to terms with the relationship, so Sherlock agreed to keep things quiet until I was comfortable.”

Lestrade turned to look closer at John, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Really. I have to admit that I find the timing slightly convenient. You two get a civil partnership and the mad genius suddenly gets involved with a case where a serial killer is killing couples who happen to have civil partnerships.”

John jumped in surprise and then tried to hide his reaction to Greg’s comment. Sherlock needed to give Lestrade more credit; the man really was good at this job. It was astonishing to John but Greg was so far the only person besides Mycroft who appeared to have even slight suspicions about the nature of their marriage. John opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure how to handle Greg’s concerns, when he felt a comforting hand land on the nape of his neck and a rumbling voice practically purr in reply, “In fact, Lestrade, I did find it highly convenient. How do you think I ever convinced John to accept my proposal? He considered it entirely too early in our relationship to contemplate such a major step.” Sherlock informed Lestrade as his thumb rubbed soothing and highly addictive circles on the back of John’s neck. “So yes this case worked entirely in my favor.”

John fought down a blush at the possessiveness and closeness implied in the physical contact and Sherlock’s words. Lestrade’s eyebrow seemed to climb even higher at both of their behavior as he commented, “Well, in that case, Sherlock, congratulations on having the intelligence to realize just how important John is to you.”

Sherlock simply nodded in acceptance of Lestrade’s words without removing the thumb that was continuing to move in that wonderfully addictive manner from John’s neck. Lestrade looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, before clearly deciding to change the subject. “I still don’t understand how you connected all these cases. Not only are they spread out all over the London metropolitan area, they happen at irregular intervals.”

Sherlock chuckled slightly. “Ahh…, Lestrade, I am afraid that you have my husband to blame. I am certain you remember a few months ago when John forced me to trawl through the cold case files, or he was going to destroy several of my experiments. In deference to our new relationship, I agreed. I must admit that John was correct and that I did manage to stave off boredom for a time by solving those three moderately interesting open murder cases.  At the time I noticed several of the open missing person cases, but failed to make the connection until Mr. Williams brought me his daughter and son-in-law’s case.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Christ Sherlock, the things you absorb and remember. Now if you two newlyweds will excuse me, I believe I have a forensic technician to calm down.”

John sighed and lowered his head as the DI turned and walked off after Anderson. John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock while he muttered softly, “You know you really should have gone into acting, you would have made a fortune. You convinced Lestrade with hardly any effort at all.”

“Nonsense, John, while there is some slight diversion to be found in using my skills to forward a case, a career as an actor would be incredibly boring. How can you be unaware of the basic fact that most actors spend their days waiting around for camera, lighting, and set design? And then when they do get to act, they run the same scene repeatedly until the director can obtain their perfect shot and acquire the necessary coverage of all the angles,” Sherlock said mockingly, while faking a slight shudder, even while the detective’s hand gave John’s neck a gentle squeeze. “Can you really see me tolerating such a ridiculous and mind numbing situation?”

John laughed slightly in shock at both the almost flirtatious teasing and Sherlock’s knowledge of acting. “I don’t suppose you will ever tell me how you know so much about acting?”

“Perhaps, someday. The case ended up being rather trite, but it had a few items of interest. Now, John, momentarily they will begin to excavate the first body from underneath the far yew bush. We will need to prevent Anderson’s team from destroying too much evidence,” Sherlock finished, his thumb rubbing lightly over his neck one more time before it dropped away and Sherlock wandered towards the flower beds, John following in his wake, the phantom feel of those fingertips still on his neck.

xxxxXXXXXxxxx

The next several hours taxed John’s patience to the limit and pushed Sherlock over his. One of the biggest blows came when Donovan called Lestrade to report that Davis Reid had escaped. In fact, the man had left his workplace an hour before Donovan arrived with three PCs in tow. Unfortunately Sherlock had overheard the phone conversation, resulting in a fifteen minute diatribe about Sally and the Yard’s incompetence. John had only managed to distract him by reminding the rampaging genius that Anderson and his forensics techs were excavating the grave under the yew bush and one of the rose bushes, completely unsupervised. Sherlock had given John a highly irritated stare at this comment, clearly aware that John was manipulating him, but the consulting detective did stalk back over the graves with a barely audible growl, forcing John to muffle a chuckle at his husband’s petulant behavior.

When Donovan had arrived back at the Reid’s place a few hours later, she looked both frustrated and saddened. John and Lestrade watched her arrival from where they were standing between the two open graves. One grave contained a busy Sherlock, his coat off – hung over a convenient bush, with his sleeves rolled up as he ‘assisted’ the tech in gently brushing the dirt off the remains. Anderson was in the other grave doing the same, although he was wearing appropriate protective gear. As she got closer, John noticed she was holding a plastic evidence bag containing a sheet of paper and a photograph. Donovan was subdued when she spoke to Lestrade, handing over the evidence bag and photo to him. “Reid knew we were coming. His co-workers said he left suddenly, claiming he wasn’t feeling well. Both of his work laptops were gone. Check out the photo, that’s how we found his workstation.” 

Greg took the photo, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he examined it, apparently trying to determine what Donovan wanted him to notice.  Eventually he looked away from the photo to examine the single sheet of paper in the evidence bag. Whatever was on the sheet made his eyebrows climb in surprise, causing John to wonder exactly what Donovan had discovered. The DI slowly turned the photo so that John and Sherlock, who had crawled out of the grave, could see it. It showed a generic office desk that was completely clear except for a single sheet of paper held in place by a single thumb tack in the center of the desk. Hanging off from the tack was a key chain, but instead of having a key attached there was a flash drive. John frowned in confusion, not understanding the significance of what he was seeing when Lestrade finally turned the evidence bag so that Sherlock and John could read the paper. John felt his jaw start to drop in disbelief, and he asked without thinking, “His arrest warrant? Why would he leave that on his desk?”

“John, really, don’t be dull, that reason is readily apparent. Reid is taunting the police. The more interesting question is how?” Sherlock replied offhandedly as he reached out to pull the evidence bag from Lestrade’s fingers and examine the paper.

Donovan shook her head. “The techs don’t have a clue, sir. It would help if we had at least one of his computers, but it appears he has all three of those with him. We also have been unable to access the flash drive at this point, it’s password protected.”

“It’s obvious from the warrant that he has hacked your system,” Sherlock answered without looking up from the evidence bag. “The more interesting information lies in the subtle details of what the intrepid Mr. Reid has accomplished.”

Sherlock looked up briefly and then rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation at the blank expressions around him. “Honestly the conclusion here is really quite simple if one would only consider what the timing of this paperwork signifies.  Reid was at work, presumably interacting and thus being observed by numerous people.  Therefore he couldn’t have been trawling through the Yard’s database monitoring for an arrest warrant.  That would have not only been time consuming but highly risky in an office setting where someone could easily see his computer screen. No, he must have planted a computer virus in the system that automatically alerted him when the warrant was issued. In fact, given how timely his response was, he was intelligent enough not to tie the virus’s search protocols to just his name, which could theoretically result in a lot of false alarms, but probably had it monitoring his driver’s license number and passport number. In fact, Reid undoubtedly has his National Insurance number flagged as well,” Sherlock said, his finger stabbing at the respective information on the warrant. “It would be a simple way to cut down on false alarms, and the virus could send the information directly to his mobile. He knew the instant you applied for the warrant. Brilliant.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes at this comment but didn’t bother to scold Sherlock, just continued the conversation. “Donovan, did the computer techs indicate if they thought they could find the leak and plug it before this man gets more of our information?”

“No.”

It was easy for John to see that this answer wasn’t what Lestrade was hoping to hear. The Detective Inspector was grinding his teeth slightly as he apparently considered his options. “Alright then,” Lestrade said with a nod, obviously coming to a decision, “Anderson?”

The forensic tech turned to look at Lestrade, raising an eyebrow as the DI continued. “We’re going to have to go old school with the record keeping. I want you to have everyone who works on this case pull out the old triplicate carbon papers for record keeping.  I am sure someone in the records department has some stashed somewhere, they never throw anything away. No one is to enter any data onto the Yard’s network without my express permission. Also have the computer techs get us a laptop with every possible wireless or internet access point removed. The only thing it’s going to be able to connect to is a printer which will be hard wired in, not wireless. I want the computer to be so off the grid, there’s not a chance that this maniac can hack it. We can use it as a backup for the paper records until we are sure that Reid can’t get back into our system. I won’t have the case compromised again.”

John was startled by Greg’s demands; not that it seemed like a bad idea to him, just that he was surprised that the man had thought of it. Apparently Greg was a lot more computer savvy than John. Sherlock gave a short nod of approval, but Anderson was shaking his head. “I’m not sure that’s possible. All of our lab equipment, including the mass spectrometer and the blood chemistry analyzers are hardwired into the network. The data is dumped directly into the case file electronically before I ever see a print out. It’s set up that way to help prevent accusations of tampering from attorneys.”

Lestrade practically growled in frustration. “Well get on the phone with tech support and figure it out. There has to be a way to keep the information off the network and protected. I am sure some tech geek will consider it a challenge. And don’t worry about the prosecutors, I will contact them myself and inform them of the situation so that they know how we are handling it. Now, Sherlock, you want to fill me in on what you and Anderson have found in the graves?”

Sherlock nodded, dropping into the grave under where the first of the yew bushes had been planted. The consulting detective immediately knelt down next to body and John had to suppress a sigh of fond exasperation when he saw his husband reach out and snitch the small brush out of the tech’s hand and proceed to continue the cleaning himself while he started sharing his deductions. “Much of the data has been compromised by Reid’s method of burial, none of the three bodies we have uncovered…”

“Three bodies?” Sally interjected, “do you have another grave open on the side of the house?”

“Donovan, Do pay attention. There is one body in this grave and Anderson is uncovering two in his. One plus two equals three,” Sherlock replied, obviously irritated by her interruption.”

“Sherlock,” John said sotto voice, attempting to stop a full blow up.

Sherlock glared at him but then obviously decided to continue, skipping his usual diatribe. “As I was saying before the incompetent interrupted me, most of the data about cause of death has been destroyed. Reid buried the bodies not only without coffins, but unwrapped. Lack of any sort of protection has caused the decomposition to proceed at a rapid rate. All three sets of remains have little to no remaining soft tissue which means we will need a forensic anthropologist to examine the bones to see if there is enough remaining data to accurately determine cause of death. However based on clothing, most of which has not yet significantly degraded due to the high content of synthetic fibers, the grave under the yew bush contains a man, and the rose bush contained a woman and a man. Width of the pelvic girdles confirms that information.”

“Why bury these two together and this one by himself?” John asked, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Did he keep the wife of whoever this is alive for longer in that prison cell of his?”

“Unknown,” Sherlock answered, not looking up from where he was excavating dirt around the skeleton’s hip region. “Determining who is in each grave and their approximate time of death may allow that question to be answered. Wait…” Sherlock finished, his voice trailing off as he started digging rapidly.

John knelt down next to the grave, trying to get a closer look at what Sherlock found, absently noticing that Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were doing the same. The consulting detective was practically vibrating with excitement as he dug two fingers into the remains of the back pocket of the skeleton’s trousers, and with a gleeful cry extracted a mostly intact wallet.

Anderson stuttered in surprise at Sherlock’s find, “Why would he make identification so simple?”

Sherlock gave an evil grin. “Simple. He never expected anyone to find these graves. Anderson, do try to do something useful and check the other two bodies.”

Anderson growled and muttered under his breath as he dropped back into the other grave. “Bollocks. Holmes is right. I have a wallet on the male body and….” Anderson’s commentary paused as he rummaged around the other body, eventually pulling out an entire purse. “…her purse. Driver’s license says these two are Derek and Pamela Ashdown.”

“And this would be PC Davidson,” Sherlock supplied. “The wallet has his driver’s license and his badge.”

Lestrade ran a hand over his face, looking grim. “Sherlock, you might have mentioned that one of the bodies might be a police officer.”

“Extraneous information. His job was mostly irrelevant to Reid. Likely the only reason he would have cared about his job is that it would have given him an additional slight thrill to take one of your own. However he wouldn’t have taken Davidson and his wife if they did not meet his other criteria,” Sherlock answered unconcernedly. John noticed that both Donovan and Anderson’s jaws clenched at Sherlock’s dismissal of the PC as unimportant.

“Much more important than his job is that Reid buried the Davidsons separately and the Ashdowns together,” the genius continued. “We know that Reid was obsessed with Pamela Ashdown, so why bury her with her husband under rose bushes and bury the Davidsons under two separate yew bushes?” Sherlock asked aloud, musing to himself as he waved a hand, indicating the other yew bush across the garden.

“What?” John asked, startled. “How can you be sure of that?”

Sherlock gave his patented oh-how-can-you-miss-something-so-obvious smirk as he replied, “Simple process of elimination, John. All the rose bushes cover graves containing two bodies, and the yew bushes one body. This rose bush covered a married couple, so given most serial killers’ obsessive need to follow ritualistic patterns, it would be logical to presume until proven otherwise that all of the rose bushes cover married couples. Therefore since this yew bush covers Mr. Davidson, it is a simple deduction that the killer buried Mrs. Davidson under the other yew bush. The more interesting question is what ritualistic need did he fill by burying some of the couples together under rose bushes, universal symbols of love and devotion, and other couples under different yew bushes, symbols of sorrow and loss?”

John absently wondered how Sherlock knew so much about the meaning of plants, deciding to ask him later in private while he watched Sherlock hauled himself back up out of the grave, handing Davidson’s wallet to Lestrade as he did so, giving the group around him an excited grin as he started rolling down his sleeves, and announcing, “Lestrade, John and I need to get back to the Yard immediately. I suspect Mr. Reid has left the answer to that question on the flash drive he so kindly provided.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, kudo, subscribe, and bookmark. You all encourage me to do better and improve myself. I also want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who was very patient as I forced this chapter out one painful paragraph at a time. Her encouragement kept me going well I wrestled with my muse.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	15. Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Story Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Chapter Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of strong violence and murder of an original character
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 15 Moments

John, his arms crossed on his chest, fingers drumming in irritation, sat on a stool in the back of the autopsy suite, watching his ludicrous husband’s fingers fly over a laptop situated on one of the many autopsy tables. Around the consulting detective swirled Molly and a team of pathologists examining the human remains which were slowly arriving from Davis Reid’s house. The laptop, specially provided by the Yard’s tech support to meet Lestrade’s requirements, was being used by the consulting detective under duress. Sherlock had loudly expressed his opinion that despite the fact that Reid had been able to hack the Yard’s system, and presumably the Custom office as well, Sherlock’s own system was impenetrable to a hacker like Reid. In the end, Lestrade had won the argument by default because he had refused to give Sherlock the flash drive unless he agreed to use it only on the provided laptop and only at the Yard or St. Bart’s morgue. Since Sherlock insisted that he also needed to be present for the autopsies while he worked on hacking the flash drive, they had found themselves in the present odd situation.

John had kept out of the debate when they had arrived back at the New Scotland Yard a little over an hour ago, partially because he agreed with Lestrade; the consulting detective did manage to keep Mycroft and his lackeys out so Reid probably wasn’t a threat, but John felt it wasn’t worth the risk to the case. Mostly he kept his mouth shut because he was extremely frustrated with the consulting imbecile and thought that he would be more likely to start a fight with him if he opened his mouth. Prior to heading to the Yard, Sherlock had demanded that they take a detour back to Baker Street, during which time Sherlock’s behavior had left John feeling downright surly and short-tempered.

Sherlock had been insistent that he needed his own copies of the case files, not wanting to wait for the file clerk at the Yard to provide the originals, so they had taken the cab over to the flat first. Once at Baker Street, Sherlock had become a whirlwind of motion, rampaging through the flat, pulling papers from files, off the case wall, and packing up both of their laptops. John had stepped out of the way after getting snapped at to stop messing up his system when he had tried to help gather the papers together. After loitering in the kitchen, feeling useless for a minute, John decided to take advantage of this stop to make a quick sandwich; it was already after three in the afternoon and it was evident that this would go well into the evening, and it was doubtful that Sherlock would be willing to stop for something as boring as food. In fact, John had decided he would throw an extra couple of sandwiches and some apples together to take with them when he noticed his own post it note on the fridge.  **Charity Quiz 9:00 am**. 

John had closed his eyes and forced himself not to bang his head against the cabinets. He had agreed that he and Sherlock would meet with the Center for Support of Childhood Cancer staff at the Charity Quiz bowl to finalize their £5000 donation. The fundraisers had asked them to show up early for registration because they wanted to arrange for a special ceremony during the charity quiz due to the size of the donation (and likely due to the fact that they were minor internet celebrities). John had been unable to talk them out of it, although he hadn’t tried very hard, because Sherlock had been right; this was a good charity and they deserved all the attention they could receive to help them raise money for the children. Sighing again to himself, he knew he would have to figure out a way out of the function that would not hurt the charity. There was no way Sherlock would willingly walk away from the case at this point, even for an hour or two.

John quickly threw together several sandwiches, considering his choices. Finally he decided that he would beg Mrs. Hudson to take their place. She loved watching quiz shows, so she might enjoy the event, and she would adore being able to give a charity for children such a large donation. Grabbing up the lunch bag, he trundled quickly down the stairs to see if she could be convinced.

Fifteen minutes later, with some pleading on John’s part (as well as several not so subtle allusions to how important this was for the children in the cancer ward), and an irritatingly impatient Sherlock pacing in the background, Mrs. Hudson had happily agreed to spend the day at the event, but only if John promised to take her over, because she was uncomfortable traveling with such a large sum of money, even if it was just a check. John had reluctantly acquiesced to her demand, which had resulted in an even stroppier Sherlock on the ride back over to the Yard. He strongly resented John leaving in the middle of the case, even if it would only take forty-five minutes or so for John to drop her off, and he had expressed his opinion loudly and moodily until John had snapped at him for being unreasonable when Mrs. Hudson was being so helpful.

John shook his head ruefully as he sat out of the way of the staff in the autopsy suite, still trying to get control of his irritation with his temporary spouse. After the fight with Lestrade over the laptops, John had followed the belligerent genius over to St. Bart’s where Sherlock began annoying Molly and the other pathologists, and John had had to work very hard not to cuff Sherlock upside the head for his lack of manners to Mrs. Hudson and now to Molly’s staff.  As the consulting detective had calmed down and began to display some minimal courtesy, seemingly having confirmed to his own satisfaction that the pathologists could do their jobs, John relaxed and began to see the humor in the situation. Eventually with nothing for him to do, he had started seesawing between boredom and the itch to jump in and offer his minimal trained services to an already harassed looking Molly.

“Ahhh…. Success,” Sherlock announced in a pleased tone, interrupting John’s musings. “Davis Reid must have intended for the password to be discovered. It was a simple combination of Pamela Ashdown’s maiden name, her passport number, birthdate, and what I presume is the date of her death.”

"Right, simple," John answered, joining Sherlock at the laptop, gesturing to get Lestrade's attention from where he was discussing the case with Sally Donovan. "Assuming you have managed to discover the identity of our killer, discovered his lifelong obsession with and stalking of the late Mrs. Ashdown, and determine exactly when a woman, whose body we have just uncovered, died. All very simple."

"As I said," Sherlock replied with an amused smirk. 

“What have you got, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked as he quickly joined them, Sally following behind, carefully not making eye contact with John.

“It appears that our Mr. Reid has gifted us with digital video file.”

“Play it,” Lestrade ordered.

The laptop screen went blank momentarily after Sherlock clicked on the file, but the scene that filled it instantly immobilized John with dread. On the screen were three people **.** The first was a brown haired woman in her late twenties tied to a heavy wooden chair with rope, and the second was a dark haired man in his early thirties, tied identically in the chair next to her. Both faced the camera, clothes dirty and torn in several places, and the man had dark bruising around his apparently broken nose. The woman had no visible injuries, but both of their faces were lined with fear, exhaustion, and despair. Behind them stood the third man, wearing an exultant expression. The screen froze just as the man opened his mouth to speak, Lestrade’s arm hastily reaching over Sherlock’s shoulder to pause the playback.

“Davis Reid,” Lestrade growled, finger pointing at the exultant man. Reid was perhaps an inch or two taller than John, physically fit and an entirely average looking man, the kind of person you wouldn’t give a second glance if met on the street. Lestrade’s finger moved to indicate the bound couple. “Do we know which of the victims these two are?”

“The Davidsons, the PC and his wife,” John answered, his brain had days ago memorized all of the faces in this case from repeated expeditions through the case files hunting information for Sherlock.

The playback resumed and Reid leaned over PC Davidson’s shoulder, speaking to the camera. “Now Mr. Davidson, I believe that you have something you wished to state for the record and for the lovely Mrs. Davidson.”

The PC took a shuddering breath, his voice strained as he spoke slowly. “I have broken my marriage vows… god!!!…” Davidson cried out the expletive in pain when Reid’s hand slammed suddenly into the side of his head, his wife starting to sob softly in the background, her worn nerves visibly close to breaking. “Sorry, I’m sorry, don’t hurt her. Civil partnership, I broke the vows of our civil partnership.”

“Exactly. Please remember the difference, I have already had to remind you far too many times,” Reid hissed into Davidson’s ear. “Now start again.”

Voice shaking, Davidson started again. “I have broken my civil partnership vows. I have failed to be honest with my wife and lied to her. I have been having an on-going affair with a female co-worker which started several months before our civil partnership. I apologize to my beautiful wife for my failure to honor both her and the promises I made.”

The autopsy suite was silent as the entire room had gathered round the laptop, the horrific contents attracting everyone’s attention. They watched Davidson finish his forced confession and take several gasping breaths before turning to look at Reid. “You’ll do as you promised now. You will let her go. She doesn’t deserve this, she hasn’t done anything wrong. Please let her go.”

“Of course Mr. Davidson. I had always intended to ensure that your charming spouse was never betrayed again,” Reid answered with a condescending smile.

John felt his body tense even as he watched PC Davidson relax, instinctively knowing that something was wrong with Reid’s reply, his hand bolting forward to grip Sherlock’s tense shoulder in a tight grasp, intensely aware that whatever happened next would be appalling. John growled in frustration when Reid turned swiftly, and before the poor woman had time to do more than give a short scream of terror, he had grabbed her head by her hair, tilted it slightly forward (which John knew increased access to both the carotid arteries and jugular veins) and slashed a large blade across her neck. Lestrade jerked and Molly gasped in horror from behind John, who felt his guts twist in revulsion at what they were witnessing.

On screen they watched PC Davidson scream in agony, his wife’s life rapidly fading and gone almost before the man had processed what Reid had done to her. Medically John knew that her death was fast, the unfortunate woman was obviously unconscious in seconds from the massive blood loss and dead within a minute. But that didn’t stop him from becoming increasingly angry and disgusted at both her death and what was happening as the scene continued to unfold. The killer, clearly not satisfied with just enjoying murdering Mrs. Davidson, was also openly relishing the pain her death was causing her grieving and frightened husband.

“Why!!! Why did you do that? You promised to let her go if I confessed to the affair on camera!” Davidson demanded, screaming in palpable fear and anger. “You said you would let her go and just keep me?!”

“And so I did. Where she has gone you cannot hurt her any longer with your faithlessness and you’re still with me at least for a few more days,” Reid smiled coldly, and Davidson froze, panic written in every line of his body as the screen went dark again.

No one spoke for a long moment, Molly’s stuttering sobs a harsh counterpoint to the tightly controlled breaths of the horrified detectives and the team of pathologists. Sherlock finally spoke, his voice tight. “I believe that answers the question of why some couples are buried separately. He must have tortured and questioned them about their relationship for days before taping this confession.” Sherlock paused, a finger tapping contemplatively over his lips. “It’s interesting that other than his broken nose, there didn’t seem to be any other visible wounds. Molly, have any of the autopsies already performed provided any information about how they were being tortured?”

The pathologist took a shuddering breath, tears tracks visible on her face, answering, "No. There’s just not enough soft tissue left on the bodies we have uncovered so far. Of the four bodies I have right now, I can confirm that PC Davidson had a broken nose, and cause of death was probably a bullet to the head, but no other signs of torture. Mrs. Ashdown's skeleton shows what might be damage from a knife wound to the surface of the ribs, which could explain the blood found in their home, but none of the wounds I can identify appear to have done enough damage to be fatal. Neither Mrs. Davidson nor Mr. Ashdown’s bodies have any knife wounds, broken bones or bullet wounds. In fact, I still wouldn't have been able to determine Mrs. Davidson's cause of death if…well…" Molly’s voice faltered, her hand gesturing to the screen they had all just been watching.

“Thanks, Molly,” Lestrade replied into the silence following her words. “Anderson sent me a message. They moved a forensic team to the graves in the side garden. The bodies in those graves aren’t completely skeletonized. They think they will have them here in a couple of hours. Maybe that will give us more answers.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock answered.

“Is there more?” John asked, not sure if he could handle witnessing another brutal murder. Sherlock shook his head, and John’s rolling stomach relaxed slightly.

The room had fallen silent again, everyone starting to move back to their workstations, when Molly stopped suddenly, picking a clear plastic bag containing clothes next to one of the skeletons. She turned the bag over in her hand, and John, watching closely, noticed a puzzled look cross her face. “Sherlock,” she asked, “what was Mrs. Davidson wearing in that video?”

John glanced at Sherlock’s face in time to see an interested expression cross it, watching the consulting detective stand and step quickly over to the pathologist. “Black trousers and a dark blue silk top,” John answered when the consulting detective didn’t reply.

“Those aren’t the clothes that were on the body of Mrs. Davidson,” she stated, still turning the bag over in her hands. “And another thing, there are no holes in these clothes and almost no trace of blood on them.”

“Are we sure that it’s her body?” John asked, frowning, trying to follow her train of thought.

Sherlock scowled at him. “Nonsense, John. Why do you think we had to stop at the flat? We have already confirmed the identities of all these bodies via thedental records I obtained. What Molly is pointing out is that Reid redressed the body. Interesting…” Sherlock continued, reaching over and snagging the clothes bag from next to Mr. Davidson’s remains. “He didn’t redress her husband.”

“Why? Why would he do that, other than because he is a sick, creepy, psychotic murderer?” John replied, his skin crawling at the ideas running through his head.

“Again, the need to control and follow patterns,” Sherlock said with a shrug, looking intently at the clothes from the other remains. “I assume you entirely failed to notice that the Davidsons were not wearing their rings in the video. An inventory of the items found on the exhumed bodies revealed that both Ashdowns were wearing rings, but neither of the Davidsons’ rings were recovered either on the bodies or in the graves.  Reid’s reasoning is glaringly apparent. Those who are faithful, at least to his mind, get a decent, respectful burial in nice clothes, wearing their wedding rings. Those who fail, such as PC Davidson, get buried without the attention to detail, wedding rings removed. It also answers the questions about why these two were buried under Yew bushes. They had an unhappy marriage, hence symbols of sorrow and loss. A boring and predictable behavioral pattern, but entirely useless in providing us with Mr. Reid’s current location.”

“Christ, this bastard bought clothing to bury them in,” Sally injected into the discussion.

“Don’t be dull, Donovan. Reid had their entire wardrobes, he simply had to choose the clothing he wished to bury them in, burn or trash the bloody clothes, and then distribute the rest to various charity shops. Places like St. Vincent De Paul’s don’t question bags of clean clothing appearing outside their door overnight, it happens all the time. If he spread his donations out over time and multiple locations, no one would ever question anything.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, interrupting, “that answers a few more questions, and raises new ones.  Donovan, check with the local charity shops and see if any of them have CCTV on the donation areas and if they have any videos from the weeks following the disappearance of Langsdales, our most recent victims. If we get lucky, it will be another nail in Mr. Reid’s coffin once we get to the trial.”

Sally moved off to follow Lestrade’s command while everyone else went back to work, and John took the opportunity to escape. A few moments later he stood, staring into the bathroom mirror, after splashing water on his face, trying to shake the visions of Mrs. Davidson’s murder from behind his eyes. It didn’t work; every time he blinked he could see the poor woman bleeding, her husband screaming. He closed his eyes again and leaned his forehead against the cool glass, taking deep calming breaths. He had seen death before: as a surgeon in a hospital, numerous deaths in the war, and those he had seen murdered while working with Sherlock. But the anger he had felt seeing this woman struggle for her life, the terror she must have been in for the days preceding her death was rolling through him, making him nauseous. As well as his fury at seeing another wasted life, John knew that part of him was saddened that in a few days the case would be finished and he would get over this just like every other death he had witnessed. He would file it away in some dark corner of his mind and move on. That felt wrong to him. The Davidsons might not have had the perfect marriage but they were good people, with no close family, no one to grieve for them. Someone should grieve for them.

“John, their families will grieve for them. This is not a burden that you need to carry.”

John laughed grimly, somehow not surprised that Sherlock could read his mind and determine what he was worrying about. “I know caring won’t save anyone, Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock said, then paused before John heard him step closer and a hand landed on his shoulder. The hand was warm and gentle, even though Sherlock’s tone was still deductive. “No, that’s not what I meant, John. You are mildly bothered by the fact that this is far from the worst death you have witnessed, and by the fact that you will be able to comparatively quickly recover from the emotions the video has raised in you. Being an army surgeon has acclimated you to violence and bloody deaths, in fact this is doubtless not the first time you have seen a throat slit, which is why you will recover quickly. What bothers you more than that is that you believe she has no one to grieve for her and her husband. While it is true that her abusive father will only be grateful that she is no longer around to remind him of his misdeeds, I suspect her mother will grieve for her. The woman recently left her husband, presumably the man was abusive to her as well.”

John chuckled humorlessly again. “You know, you aren’t so hot at this comforting people bit, are you. Usually it’s not a good idea to mention additional tragedies when trying to improve someone’s mood.”

John had to bite back an outright laugh at the look on Sherlock’s face. John thought he might be attempting to look disgusted, but it looked more like a pout. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was more bothered by the thought that he might be less than excellent at anything, or at being caught in an attempt at offering comfort. Either way, it gave John a warm feeling, and helped drive away the rolling nausea from his anger. Sherlock’s manner of distracting him might be different, but it certainly was effective, at least for him. “Come on you nutter, let’s get back to work. Serial killers to catch you know.”

Sherlock smiled wickedly and led the way back towards Autopsy.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Anderson turned up shortly after nightfall with a fifth body, reporting that he had halted the digging for the night and that a few PC’s had been left guarding the site, both to control the paparazzi that had already shown up and keep an eye out in case Reid reappeared, not that anyone really expected that to happen. Anderson was crowing when he arrived; the ID found on this body didn’t match up with anyone on Sherlock’s list of the missing. In fact, according to the man’s ID he was from Hitchin. The forensic specialist was attempting to use this information to make Sherlock look inept. Unfortunately for Anderson, Sherlock looked supremely unconcerned at his efforts, and merely raised an eyebrow at him.

“Although I am thrilled to discover that you are finally starting to acknowledge my genius and general knowledge of interesting criminal events within London, I fear in this case I must disappoint you. A two year old missing person’s case from the frighteningly dull regions of Hitchin is slightly outside my day to day purview.”

“Hitchin?” Lestrade asked.

“Yeah,” Anderson answered. “The ID on this one identifies the body as a Henry Conner from Hitchin. It’s about 40 miles north. I gave Sally the information on the way in, she’s contacting the local constabulary to see if they can find missing person’s report for him.”

“And his spouse,” Sherlock tacked on sharply, getting an indignant look from Anderson.

“And his spouse,” Anderson confirmed. “If the pattern holds, his spouse should be buried under a yew bush at the far end of the side garden.”

“Obviously. What’s more interesting is that this confirms that Reid must not only have another site where he is holding the more recent couples, there must be secondary burial ground,”  Sherlock lectured, his magnifying glass out, examining the newly arrived remains intently. John wasn’t sure exactly what the consulting detective was expecting to find. This body had more tissue present than the completely skeletonized remains they had been examining, but it still looked to John’s eye to have a significant amount of decomposition.

“Sherlock, I get that if you’re right about all the couples on your list being victims, that there must be another disposal site; we simply don’t have enough bodies. But I don’t see how you know that he isn’t using the basement anymore. He has had three weeks to scrub that basement clean of evidence,” Lestrade asked, his voice managing the usual mix of confusion and irritation it took around Sherlock.

Sherlock either was so deep into his examination of the body that he didn’t answer or more likely he chose to ignore it, considering the question unimportant, so John suppressed a sigh and responded for him. “The construction. It wasn’t noticeable by the time you got there because most of the workers stopped in order to watch the search, but there is a lot of new construction. Looked to me like the area has undergone some major urban development in the last two years. That old farmhouse wouldn’t have had any close neighbors five years ago and now there are new houses everywhere. I’m sure you saw the house being built right on the other side of the property line. Too easy for someone to overhear him torturing his victims.”

Greg’s hand was scrubbing across his forehead, frustration clearly evident on his face. “So this man has another killing room that we have to find.” The DI exhaled heavily before lowering his hand. “Right then, I’ll start with looking into his immediate family. See if he or his parents owned any property in the country. Although given that it’s after seven on a Friday, we will be lucky to get any information between now and Monday.”

John was pondering this for a moment before asking, “Perhaps this is a ridiculous question, but could he have purchased anything under the victims’ names? He has all their ID’s and banking information.”

Lestrade looked interested, and then dismayed when Sherlock chipped in, not looking up from the body. “Improbable. At least for the victims that I discovered. I found no activity under their banking records that indicated a credit check necessary for a home loan. Additionally **,** a land purchase would have listed their name in the deed registry, which would have raised flags in the system since the person had been listed with the missing person’s units. Even though the police believed in most cases that the couples involved had moved overseas, the cases are technically still open. Furthermore I already performed a search for land purchases under all those names, made either before or after their disappearance. Feel free to check the new victims if you absolutely feel you must waste time better spent researching his family connections for land ownership, and bullying some useless office drone into releasing the information we require.”

Lestrade suppressed a growl, causing John to smother a smirk. He really did get what Greg was feeling, but it was always more amusing not to be the target of one of Sherlock’s absentminded verbal sideswipes. After noticeably biting back a rejoinder, Lestrade seemed to get himself under control and turn away, apparently to do what his royal rudeness had demanded.  John shook his head and leaned over until he could whisper softly to Sherlock, “Pushing him a little hard aren’t you?”

“Well, if the fool will go away for two weeks and leave me with only his imbecilic colleagues, what can he expect? You are aware that we would be significantly further in this case if I had the resources of the yard available to me, limited as they may be,” Sherlock answered with a dismissive shrug, an amused smirk crossing his face while John chuckled ruefully.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John had stop smiling and was examining a small mark on some skin for an impatient Sherlock, when an exhausted looking Lestrade returned several hours later. “No Sherlock, sorry. I can’t be sure what caused this discoloration. Could be a tattoo, ink stain of some sort, a cigarette burn, a chemical burn, or something else entirely. Microscopic examination of the tissue might help, but we would need to fix the tissue in formaldehyde for at least twenty four hours before we could realistically prepare the tissue for slide examination.”

“John! This may give us critical information about how he is torturing the victims.”

“Sorry, Sherlock. Unless you have a way to fix tissue faster for slicing and examination, it’s going to take at least twenty-four hours,” John replied with a shrug.

Sherlock had opened his mouth again, presumably to complain, when Lestrade jumped in. “Not that I don’t want to know the answer to that question, but I need to know if you can give me any clearer idea of how to track and find Davis Reid. I already have customs keeping an eye out for him, and they have all the known victims’ passports flagged. And I have team of sergeants checking into the home ownership records of anyone remotely related to him. What about known aliases?”

“I have not identified any aliases but given the apparent ease with which he has accessed the customs computer network and the fact that I found no record of him leaving the country under his own name, when I know he has done so several times to close bank accounts, one could reasonably infer that he has multiple false passports,” Sherlock replied immediately.

Sherlock actually turned away from the body to continue the conversation with Lestrade, a pretty serious indicator to John that Sherlock considered it an important topic. “I don’t believe he would be foolish enough to attempt to cross the border immediately. Given how controlled Reid appears to be, and the fact that he doesn’t seem overly concerned by our locating him, as evidenced by the flash drive he took the risk to leave us, I think he would wait until it calms somewhat before leaving the country. Heightened border security searching for one specific face in the crowd can only be considered realistically effective for a few days to a week. After that time period guards are likely to stop closely scrutinizing faces due to a combination of mental fatigue and human nature. So we can reasonably infer that someone this controlled would plan on laying low until the border securities decrease and then cross with one of his fake passports later.”

“So do you think he’s hiding at this secondary location?” Lestrade took a quick breath, and then asked another question before Sherlock could answer. “Is it possible that he has another couple?

Sherlock shook his head. “As was confirmed by the Davidsons’ appearance in the video, he spends several days torturing the couple. Why waste the enjoyment he gets out of the torture by spending a half day at work if he had a couple currently? I expect when you start matching up his work history with the presumed dates of disappearance of the couples you will discover that either Reid was on vacation, sick leave, or working from home for several days. Additionally, there have been no missing persons reported in the last seven days that match our killer’s signature, although theoretically he could have taken someone from a surrounding community that is not attached to the Met’s database or the couple has not yet been reported missing. As to whether or not he is at his secondary location, that is difficult to determine. The answer depends on how probable he considers it that we will discover the location quickly.”

“How about taking someone?” John voiced a question that had been concerning him. “I know he‘s on the run, but like you said, he doesn’t seem very worried about being caught. Would he take his next victims to, I don’t know, flaunt it in our faces?”

“Possible, although again improbable,” Sherlock replied dismissively. “Once we locate him, I would be unsurprised to discover that he was stalking several couples in preparation for the abduction of his next victims, but it would be exceedingly risky for him to take another set of victims. The more logical tactic is to wait until he can leave the country and move to a new hunting ground with all new victims. And it’s a tactic that has a high risk of succeeding due to the fact that we missed our best opportunity of catching him unawares might I point out!”

“And deranged serial killers always behave in logical manners?” John shot back quickly, raising a questioning eyebrow. Sherlock glared in response to these words before giving a compromising shrug, a very small shrug, but one that conceded the point however grudgingly.

“Alright. Just as a precaution, I’ll notify all of the London stations and the surrounding communities to contact us immediately about any reported missing couples,” Lestrade said, once again grabbing his mobile phone. “It won’t buy us much time if he takes a couple that is distant from their family like the previous ones and they delay reporting it, but it still could give us a few leads.” Lestrade’s grey head tipped to the side, before he asked slowly, “Do I need to assign some protection to you two?  I assume the pair of you are going to show up on Reid’s list of potential targets?”

“As the goal of those numerous outings was to attract his attention, I would hope that our names are listed,” the consulting detective replied smugly. “As for protection, don’t be ridiculous. Reid is both cautious and meticulous. Attempting to abduct John or myself at this late juncture would be a pointlessly dangerous endeavor, particularly since the media has already reported our involvement in the case,” Sherlock finished, waving his mobile phone in the air, the screen moving too fast for John to read, doubtlessly containing an article about the case. “They aren’t yet reporting that it is a hunt for an active serial killer but they are aware that we have found several bodies on the property. This man is not an idiot, he would know that taking us could only exponentially decrease his chance of escaping to continue his chosen craft.”

“Wonderful. At least I don’t have to torture some poor PC with trying to protect you two maniacs, since I’m going to have enough to handle between the case and the press.  I had hoped that even with the reporters at Reid’s house that we might fly a little further under the radar for at least a day or two. I suppose we will have to loop the public relations people into the case in the morning,” Lestrade grumbled to himself before wandering to the far corner of the lab, his mobile once again attached to his ear.

Fifteen minutes later Molly, with a hyperactive Sherlock hovering, had just finished placing an excised section of the discolored skin into formaldehyde when Lestrade interrupted with an announcement to the entire room. “Since it’s almost eleven and we all need some sleep if we’re going to stay fresh for this case, I want everyone to pack it in for the night. If we meet back here at ten tomorrow morning that will give us fresh eyes to go over the evidence.”

“That’s eleven hours of wasted time, Lestrade!” Sherlock interrupted with an aggravated shout.

“Is anything in the autopsies likely to give you a lead to where Davis Reid is hiding right now?” Lestrade quizzed.

“All data is useful.”

“Only if it’s accurate. For the average human being lack of sleep increases the likelihood of errors being made.” Lestrade’s hand rose interrupting Sherlock’s objection before he could speak. “I am not calling a halt to the entire case. I have five Sergeants sorting through the records of Reid’s parents and other close relatives, looking for a possible leads, just like you suggested. Other Sergeants are waking up officers in the area, trying to track open missing persons cases that match our profile, both in the last three weeks and over the last five years. If anything turns up you will be the first person I call, but I’m not going to give a defense attorney any reason at all to question the forensic evidence.”

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, dramatically turning his back to stalk off toward the laptop and its attached flash drive. John was beginning to follow him when Molly suddenly tugged on his elbow, and gestured to her office. John was surprised. Although Molly had taken to treating Sherlock more like an eccentric colleague than a freshman crush, she rarely spoke with John when not giving him information that had been requested by the consulting detective.

Molly rummaged through a desk door for a moment, before turning and handing John a small unwrapped black jewelry box. “I know Sherlock and wrapped gifts aren’t exactly a good combination, and he obviously wanted his marriage ceremony to be a private matter between the two of you, but I still wanted to give you something,” she finished shyly.

“Thank…Thank you,” John stammered, completely thrown by the gesture, his guilt over their deception rising to the forefront of his mind. “It’s so kind, Molly, you really didn’t need to.”

“I wanted to congratulate you both.” She seemed to gather her courage before continuing. “I also wanted to thank you personally, John. I lied to you for months and you forgave me without question. You didn’t have to forgive me for my part in Sherlock’s fake suicide. I’m not sure if I could have forgiven someone who didn’t tell me that someone so important to me had been forced to fake their death, and let me go on believing that he was dead. So, well…”

John was shocked at Molly’s reply. He had never known that she had worried about his forgiveness. It had never occurred to him not to; he had just been so grateful that Sherlock had help in order to make that fall safely and disappear when Moriarty had forced Sherlock’s hand with his unknown threat. John shook that thought off, absently wondering if he would ever be able to bring himself to ask Sherlock what he had considered important enough to die for that day. John didn’t have a clue how to respond to Molly’s statement, so he decided to take the route easiest for a British man, just shrug non-committedly, before opening the jewelry box. Inside lay two silver chains.

John looked up, surprised. “Molly, this is a really thoughtful gift.”

“As Sherlock would no doubt point out it’s a simple deduction,” Molly said cheekily, “doctors, and pathologists, need a safe place to keep their rings when they need to take them off for work.  And given Sherlock’s propensity for dangerous hands-on experiments…” She trailed off with a smile.

John returned the smile and then reached out, pulling her into a brief hug. “Thank you, Molly.  And thank you for saving his life. Thank you for saving him for me,” he whispered beforereleasing herand striding quickly from the office.

xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Just before nine the next morning John was chivvying a fluttering Mrs. Hudson out of Baker Street, determined to get back before Sherlock became more agitated and set something on fire in a fit of frustration. John had been extremely glad that he wasn’t Lestrade this morning, as the consulting detective had an insane number of texts to the DI and was pacing around the flat muttering about the poor information flow and the ridiculousness of waiting until ten am to continue the autopsies. John had simply nodded and handed over tea and toast, wisely keeping his mouth shut other than assuring the madman that he would be back by half past nine, which would get them to the Yard with plenty of time to spare. The consulting detective had just grunted in reply and strolled into the bathroom with a dismissive wave.

When John finally returned he was ten minutes later then he had promised. Mrs. Hudson and the charity event organizers had made it difficult to break free both quickly and politely, the former wanting to tell him about the card partner’s she had invited and the later wanting to repeatedly thank them for the donation. “Sorry, Sherlock. We still have plenty of time to get to the Yard by ten,” John called, bounding up the top of the stairs, freezing in disbelief at the sight that met him through the open kitchen door.

Sherlock lay unconscious on the kitchen floor next to the table. A trickle of blood was coming from his left temple where his head had apparently hit the table, his hair was still wet and he was only wearing his trousers. John bolted over to his side, shaking his head to clear away the overlapping image of a broken Sherlock, shrouded in his coat lying on hard pavement. John’s left hand scrambled for the gun he wasn’t carrying, his right desperately searching for a pulse. Sherlock had evidently been attacked coming out of the bathroom before he could finish dressing. John’s heart rate instantly lowered once he felt the reassuring beat of the pulse below his fingers. Then he noticed the small puncture wound on Sherlock’s neck.

John eyes darted around the room, searching for the intruder, trying to identify objects he could use as impromptu weapons, when the feel of cold metal at his throat halted him. “Dr. Watson. How wonderful of you to join us, even if your husband’s behavior has prevented me from being entirely prepared for your arrival. I had hoped you would take a little longer to return,” a voice hissed in his ear.

“Sorry to disappoint you Mr. Reid,” John replied carefully.

“No problem whatsoever. I want to assure you, your husband is just fine. He should sleep for another two perhaps three hours. I do apologize for the head wound, the silly man, he attempted to fight the sedative I injected, and I was forced to knock him out. I do hope you won’t be foolish enough to give me that much trouble,” Reid whispered menacingly. “Now stand. Slowly.”

John started to rise slowly from his crouched position, and when he was almost fully upright he struck. Elbow slamming into Reid’s solar plexus forcing air out of his lungs, he simultaneously slammed his left foot down on Reid’s instep. As Reid fell partially backward, his balance ruined by the pain of the sudden attack and gasping in an attempt to control his breathing, John swung his hand up to grab the murderer’s wrist. John shoved the knife further away from his throat, while sliding his body out and away from Reid’s grasp. John was forcing Reid’s wrist toward the wall, trying to break his grip on the blade, when Reid got his breath back and rejoined the fight. John quickly found himself wrestling for control of the knife, the two of them body slamming each other into walls, each attempting to break the other’s grip and gain the upper hand.

John wasn’t sure if it was fifteen seconds or two minutes later but suddenly his head impacted against the side of the stove and he saw stars, and lost his grip on the knife handle for a crucial second. With a bellow of rage, Reid swung the blade at him. John twisted, throwing himself to the side, trying to avoid the strike, screaming when it went hilt deep into his upper right thigh.  The combination of twisting in an attempt to evade the attack and the pain of the knife strike brought him crashing to the floor. Reid reacted swiftly, wrenching the knife out, a booted foot landing hard on John’s neck.

“Enough,” Reid growled. “Enough or I kill him right here, right now. Your husband is a pretty smart man so I bet you have seen the video I left for the police. I’m sure you know exactly what I am talking about. The plan isn’t to kill you now. You have a few questions to answer before then.  You never know, the police are looking for me, you might get lucky.”

John nodded his reluctant agreement, not willing to risk Sherlock’s life. He needed to keep the two of them alive until they could find a weakness they could exploit and escape, or were rescued. Sherlock had said repeatedly that Reid kept his victims alive for several days. Assuming that he didn’t kill them immediately once they were both unconscious, they might have a chance at survival. Reid smiled widely at John’s capitulation. “Good.”

The killer stepped back away from John, dropping a filthy handkerchief from his pocket onto John’s lap. “You can use that to bandage the wound. You’re bleeding some but looks like we managed to miss the femoral artery, so you shouldn’t be in any danger of bleeding out. Correct?”

John nodded silent agreement to this statement, his eyes flickering over to the still unconscious Sherlock, while binding the wound with the dirty makeshift bandage. He finally looked back up to Reid once he was finished. “Now what?”

“Dose yourself. 1 cc’s IV,” Reid commanded, dropping a drug vial and a needle with a syringe in his lap. “Once you’re out I’ll be injecting another cc into your thigh muscle.”

John picked up the sedative only slightly, surprised to find one of the new anesthetics used in ICU's to keep patients in severe pain under light to moderate trances. Given the way Reid intended, John imagined he would be unconscious and at Reid’s mercy for a couple of hours while the drug leached slowly out of the muscle. John took a deep breath, quickly sliding the needle into his vein, praying the whole time that he had made the right choice. His eyes snapped over to stare at Sherlock, angrily tossing the empty syringe away, hoping his failure to stop Reid hadn't killed the most important person in his life as his vision rapidly grew black, and pleading desperately, "Please, god, let him live."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: Please don’t throw sharp things at me for this chapter ending! I promise I won’t leave you waiting two months this time(as I did my FanFiction.net readers), but if I get injured I won’t be able to write. Chapter 16 is already half written. I hope all of my amazing readers found this worth the wait. A combination of the uncontrollable complexities of life and my unruly muse ganged up on me make this an extremely difficult chapter to write.
> 
> I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, kudo, subscribe, and bookmark. You all encourage me to do better and improve myself. I also want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who had to deal with a huge convoluted chapter that did not want to be written. Her support kept me going when I thought I couldn’t write this one.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


	16. Captive Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
> 
> Story Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Chapter Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of strong violence against both of our heroes. NO RAPE, and nothing permanently debilitating. I tried to keep it within what you could see on television.

Chapter 16 Captive Audience

John groaned, fighting his way back to consciousness. He felt like several small mariachi bands were playing inside of his skull, and he couldn’t seem to order his eyes open. The last time he had felt this bad the Chinese mafia had used him as a punching bag. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind - a stupid mistake since the sudden increase of pain almost caused him to black out again. Scowling at the throbbing, John forced his eyelids up and proceeded to dry heave at the instant nausea the light mixed with the headache produced. Eventually he got his stomach back under control and began trying to assess himself. Hmm… nauseous… severe headache…difficulty thinking… Possible concussion, he finally concluded.

While he decided if he was ready to try opening his eyes again, the muzzy idea crossed his mind that it was good that he had missed breakfast; it wouldn’t have made whatever was happening any better if he was covered in vomit. John’s thoughts stuttered to a halt, a vague memory of rushing out of the flat floating to the surface of his mind. Followed by the remembered rush of adrenaline mixed with fear and the notion that Sherlock needed him. John knew something had gone wrong after leaving the flat with Mrs. Hudson, but he couldn’t seem to remember how he had ended up with the ringing in his skull. A small burning itch in his elbow caused him to wonder if perhaps he had been drugged again. That would certainly explain some of the confusion and the headache, so maybe he didn’t have a concussion? Or conceivably he had both?

That wouldn’t be good, he thought groggily when another worry crossed his pain-addled mind. Where was Sherlock? Was he injured? What couldn’t he remember? John’s anxiety level ratcheted up, helping to bring some focus and order to his mind. As his awareness improved, he realized he was sitting upright in a wooden chair, a chair to which he was rather tightly bound.  John could feel plastic restraints, possibly zip-ties, holding his wrists to the arms of the chair and some sort of rope securing his waist and chest to back of the chair. John could also feel an extremely painful, festering wound on his right thigh. The cloth over the injury felt damp, which meant he was probably still bleeding slightly.

Once John was positive he wasn’t going to start heaving again, he forced his eyes open again slowly, cautiously, and this time the disorientation had decreased to a manageable level. Wincing a little at the ongoing pounding in his head, John looked around, forcing himself not to show the panic that shot through his system when he saw Sherlock, awake and aware, tied in a chair directly across from him. He took a deep breath to help him stay in control, and the memories came flooding back. Davis Reid had captured them. Sherlock had been attacked getting out of the shower, and John had lost a knife fight with the man.

John swept an intent look over Sherlock, trying to evaluate his condition. The consulting detective was still only in his trousers, his chest and feet bare. The cut on his temple had developed a vivid bruise surrounding the small and apparently superficial cut, with some dried blood running down the side of his face. Sherlock had new bruises on his ribs that hadn’t been present when John had examined him at the flat. The bastard had beaten him while John was unconscious. John had to fight down a sudden flare of rage at the thought and forced himself to remain calm and keep inspecting his friend. After a scrutinizing him a moment longer, John decided that overall Sherlock seemed okay given their circumstances. John relaxed slightly at this realization and finally noticed that the detective was fixedly staring at him, trying to get his attention. John nodded slightly, hoping that Sherlock would deduce that he knew what had happened and that John was alright, before tearing his gaze away from his flatmate to study the room around them.

He was surprised to see what looked like an A&E room vital signs monitor off to the side. John frowned, suddenly becoming aware that it didn’t look quite right. After staring at it for a few more beats he grasped that the machine wasn’t a vitals monitor but a lie detector, similar to the ones he had seen a few times at Scotland Yard. Looking around further, he noticed that there were digital camcorders pointed at the both of them and at the lie detector. John’s heart froze when he finally comprehended that the sick bastard was going to tape whatever was about to happen, just as he had done to the other couples. John decided that Reid must be pretty confident about not being caught if he was taking time to record them. Not at all a reassuring idea, he mused.

Finally, John took stock of himself again now that he could see. Given how quickly his head was clearing at the adrenaline spike, he considered it was more likely that his initial disorientation and light sensitivity was drug induced from the sedative that Reid had forced him to inject. His dry mouth told him he was a little dehydrated from being sedated for an extended period of time. His ribs hurt but it wasn’t overly painful to breathe, so although he had several bruises on his ribs from his fight with Reid, he hadn’t gotten any rib fractures or been beaten while he was unconscious. He absently noted that the ring he had become accustomed to was missing from his left hand. Predicable he supposed; Reid had taken the other victims’ rings.

More pressing was the knife wound to his left thigh. Since John hadn’t bled out while he was sedated, it had obviously missed all the major vasculature, but John had seen the filth that had coated the blade, and the makeshift bandage tied around the wound wasn’t exactly clean. Assuming Sherlock got them out of this situation (which John had to believe he would), John was very likely going to need treatment for septicemia. He couldn’t see his leg under the bandage and his clothes, but he could feel the line of fire running up his leg that indicated spreading infection. There wasn’t anything he could do about it right now with his hands tied, so he decided that it wasn’t worth wasting energy on worrying. Years of working on the front line doing triage had taught him he needed to focus on what he could control, on helping Sherlock to get them out of this mess before the infection progressed much further and made him a liability to the consulting detective.

John glanced at Sherlock again, opening his mouth to speak, only to swiftly shut it when Sherlock shook his head forbiddingly. John glared at him, before figuring out that Sherlock believed Reid was listening. John nodded again and kept looking at the consulting detective, taking in every movement, looking for any clue that would tell him what Sherlock might be thinking or planning. While he kept an eye on his genius, John tested the zip-ties binding his arms to the chair. They naturally turned out to be too tight to allow him to get out of them, and even placed so carefully that he couldn’t manage to break his wrist to aid his escape from the bindings. To his surprise, there were no ligatures around his ankles or legs, until he remembered the scuff marks on the floor of Reid’s basement. Reid liked to torture his victims, the bastard probably preferred them to struggle. The ropes around his abdomen and chest were slightly looser but placed so that if he stood, he would be carrying the chair with him. John frowned slightly at the chair. It didn’t seem as sturdy as the ones he had seen in the video yesterday. In fact, even with his leg injury he was fairly confident that he could probably carry this one for a respectable distance.

John decided that his best option was to see if the drug had worn off enough to allow him to walk the chair closer to Sherlock, wondering perhaps if they could untie each other somehow before the kidnapper reappeared. Although if he was listening, he was probably watching too. John was just about to try it anyway when he heard a door behind him open. His spine stiffened as he listened to Davis Reid announce, “Ah…, Dr. Watson, so glad you have finally rejoined us. I do apologize, after our altercation I decided that it might be safer to give you a little extra sedative, and it took you longer than I anticipated to burn it off. Your husband’s metabolism however is impressive, he recovered from his dosage much faster. I’m terribly sorry but his behavior upon awakening required me to begin teaching him a few manners while we waited for you,” Reid continued, indicating the new bruising John had seen on Sherlock’s ribs. “I’m afraid I’m a little disappointed myself. I usually do a much better job of controlling my initial meetings with my guests. I do hope it doesn’t impact on your feelings about the results of our upcoming conversation. I believe we will all find it very enlightening.”

“Now that you have finally recovered, I believe it’s time to begin,” Reid said, walking to stand between John and the lie detector, a frighteningly gleeful expression on the serial killer’s face as he leaned over and started attaching monitors to John’s arms **,** using the knife from the earlier fight toslice holes in his shirt to allow the leads to be attached to his chest. “Do excuse the personal touch. As a medical man, I’m sure you understand that the monitors need to be touching your skin in order to work properly,” Reid apologized conversationally, working steadily, and John nodded grimly in silent reply, unwilling to risk angering the man.

“Now, I’m certain you understand the function of this machine without me having to explain it.  There is only one simple rule you will need to follow. You’ll have five seconds to respond truthfully to any question I ask. Before you decide that you can avoid the consequences of a lie by simply not answering, let me assure you that is not an option. If you lie or refuse to answer, your husband will be punished by progressively worsening electric shocks,” Reid stated, malice dripping from his voice. The killer walked over to Sherlock and started to attach electrodes to his chest legs and arms, from a machine John was unable to see positioned behind Sherlock. John watched horrified, unsure how or even if he was expected to reply.

“I realize that an ex-soldier such as yourself might be able to withstand a fair amount of pain but I expect you’re unwilling to stand pain inflicted on your husband.Therefore, in order to ensure that you understand just how serious I am about your answers, I thought you would enjoy a little demonstration of my sincerity.”

As Reid finished the sentence his hand came up so John could see a small controller in his palm.  John watched in horror when the man pressed the button and Sherlock convulsed painfully in his chair. “Stop!! I understand! I’ll answer your questions!!” John yelled, heartbeat skipping, agonizing fear sweeping through his body. Sherlock had to survive this. John was expendable, Sherlock was not. John knew what the world was like without Sherlock and he would not live in that place again.

“Excellent,” Reid said, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s pain and John’s torment. “So, Dr. Watson, let's begin. Please answer no to the first three questions in order to calibrate the machine,” Reid detailed, sounding so similar to a constable from a television drama that John felt a hysterical laugh trying to escape his chest. "Are you thirty-one years old?”

"No."

"Do you live at 15 Charring Cross Road?"

"No."

"Are you a former member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

"No,” John replied. Sherlock was convulsing from the electrical shock almost before John finished the word.

"What are you doing?" John screamed, “Stop!! I did what you said. I answered no." John froze when Reid chuckled, John’s panic increasing even while Sherlock's body relaxed, the electrical shock no longer coursing through the detective’s body.

"Ahh... but I also said that lying would result in your husband being shocked,” the killer replied, and John grimaced, furious that he had fallen for such an obvious trick. John looked at Sherlock, trying to apologize without speaking for not seeing the trap, absolutely certain that he didn’t want to know what Reid would do if he tried to talk to his flatmate. Sherlock just shook his head at John, obviously forgiving him.

"Now back to business, if you are quite done screaming, we have a lot of ground to cover if we’re to determine it you two are actually compatible,” Reid continued in an eerily calm voice. “I suspect Mr. Holmes has already deduced the reasons for these little sessions of mine. Has he filled you in, Dr. Watson?”

“Yes.”

“I had suspected as much,” Reid said, the beeping machine confirming the truth of John’s words.  “That’s good, because then you’re entirely aware that this is a test, a test to determine if you and your husband are actually committed to each other and this relationship. If you pass, you were obviously meant to be together forever. If however you fail, well let’s just say that would be disappointing, although in this case not unexpected. It’s easily apparent that you married in a misguided attempt to hunt me.”

Reid suddenly bolted from behind the lie detector towards Sherlock, grabbing the detective by the chin and forcing Sherlock’s head back to look at his face. John pulled against the restraints, desperate to get across the room to where Reid was angrily growling in the detective’s face. “Be honest, Mr. Holmes, did you like my work? I know you found some of it at my home, which you have now made impossible for me to return to. Are you proud of forcing me to flee my homeland to continue my work?”

Sherlockvoice was slow and cutting, a sharp contrast to the fury in Reid’s. “Although I found your method of stalking your victims to be ingenious, your detailed cover ups of the crimes well organized, and your efforts at hiding your actions from the police more than adequate, I must admit I find the justification for your crimes to be quite banal.”

“Banal. You find searching for proof of true love and commitment to be banal.”

“No, I find your justification of your crimes banal,” Sherlock coolly answered. John closed his eyes briefly, trying not to groan while Sherlock continued to bait a madman. Again. “You clearly have some form of anti-social personality disorder. You do not feel emotions like love, at least not as most people do. You do, however, have obsessions. Your fixation with Pamela Ashdown led you to stalk and eventually kill her and her husband for her perceived rejection of you. Of course, first you needed to gather the courage to do it by completing a dry run with the Turpins.

“Once you had killed both couples, you discovered that you enjoyed the power that the kidnappings and torture had provided. So you continued. Clearly, you couldn’t care less about other people’s petty emotions. You don’t care if the couples you take actually love each other or are faithful. This is entirely about fulfilling your pathetic need for power and control over life and death,” Sherlock finished scornfully.

Reid actually seemed to consider Sherlock’s words before the cruel smile warped his mouth. He struck Sherlock a heavy blow across his face that rocked him in the chair before gripping his chin again. “I’m sure your husband would disagree with you, Mr. Holmes. The search for love is one of the most meaningful parts of human existence. I fear you’re going to disappoint him greatly today, likely to both of your detriment.”

Reid backhanded Sherlock again, causing John’s heart to twist in his chest, anger and panic competing with each other as he was forced to sit and watch. After the second strike, Reid moved over once again to the lie detector and turned to address John. “I apologize for making you wait. It won’t happen again. Now then, my first question, Dr. Watson. Are you married to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love your husband?”

John stared at Sherlock, hoping beyond hope that if they survived this that he would be able to salvage their friendship. But it wasn’t even worth contemplating trying to protect himself by lying. “Yes. Yes I do.”

Sherlock’s expression unsurprisingly didn’t waver at John’s declaration. The man was a consummate actor, and had plenty of experience controlling his reactions. Davis Reid’s however might have been a study of shock. The man had obviously never considered that either of them might be in love and the truth had thrown him off his game. The killer’s façade quickly resorted itself into an inquiring look which might have looked friendly on another face, but on Reid’s it simply looked dangerous. “Surprising. I don’t think I would have believed you without the lie detector. Was you husband aware of these feelings?”

“No.”

“So you married him, but you didn’t bother to tell your husband that you love him. Must make for an interesting marriage.”

“Is there a question in there?” John demanded, screaming in rage as Sherlock convulsed again. “What are you doing?! I didn’t lie!”

“Of course you didn’t. But I didn’t appreciate your attitude. I thought you could use a reminder of who is in charge here,” Reid snapped, a small malicious grin on his face. John glared at him briefly before turning his attention back to Sherlock. The consulting detective was shaking his head and looking dazed. John feared what kind of damage Sherlock would sustain if he couldn’t control himself enough to protect the detective from any more shocks.

“Now, Dr. Watson, your focus back where it belongs please,” Reid demanded, irritation coloring his voice as he placed himself behind the lie detector again. John forced himself to switch his gaze away from Sherlock, not wanting to test Reid’s restraint. “Next question. You claim that your husband doesn’t know that you love him. So would it be fair to presume that you don’t believe that he loves you?”

“Yes,” John spat out quickly, taking the risk of flashing a quick glance at Sherlock, noting that he was still disoriented while Reid was focused on his machinery.

“Such honesty, Dr. Watson.” Reid commented, looking up with the smirk back on his face. “This must be painful for you. Did you intend to ever tell him of your feelings?”

“No.”

“Why, how self-sacrificing you are. Now given that you don’t believe that Mr. Holmes loves you and you weren’t going to tell him, why ever would you marry him?”

“To help catch you.”

“How flattering. How’s that working out for you?”

John ground his teeth, biting back the expletive he wanted to utter, and forcing out a tight lipped, “Not as well as I hoped.”

Reid barked out a laugh, turning to Sherlock who was once again watching the two of them intently. “Oh dear, Mr. Holmes, I fear that you have let down your poor loving husband. He must be so disappointed. Not only did he marry a man who didn’t love him, instead of catching me, you managed to place both of you under my control.”

“No,” John disagreed, trying to draw Reid’s attention away from Sherlock. “He didn’t disappoint me. He found you, a killer that no one knew existed. Then he not only figured out how you hunt them, he discovered exactly who you were, and where you lived. The Yarders are the ones who disappointed me, they’re the ones who let you get away. They didn’t even know you had hacked their system. Their mistake left you free and us at risk.”

“How wonderfully loyal you are to defend your husband so vigorously,” Reid growled, crossing the room to John, the man’s fingers wrapping tightly around his throat, restricting but not completely closing off his airway. Reid bent down to whisper in his ear, “but I didn’t ask you a question.”

John flinched, expecting to hear Sherlock screaming in pain again, and then relaxed slightly when it didn’t come. Reid chuckled. “No, John, this time I feel you should be punished for your failure to pay attention.”

Even as he finished speaking Reid’s left hand tightened again on John’s neck, while his right thumb suddenly dug hard into the knife wound on John’s thigh. John tried to scream but only produced a strangled rasp, a white flare of pain searing up and down his leg. The world started to go black as he struggled for air, when suddenly Reid let go and stepped back from John. He gasped and coughed, trying to drag air into his lungs, vaguely hearing Sherlock shouting and banging his chair across the room.

“John! John! Damn it, you son of a bitch, leave him alone. I’m the one who married him to hunt you!” Sherlock bellowed.

John wanted to tell him he was fine, to stop playing into Reid’s joy in their pain, but he couldn’t seem to get his breath back. He watched Reid stride quickly over to Sherlock, lean down and growl, “Yes, yes it is your fault, but I fear that is another thing about marriage that you apparently fail to understand. Not only do both partners get the benefits of each other’s successes, they get to deal with the fallout of the other’s failure.” Reid’s fist flashed out, striking Sherlock’s chest over his already bruised ribs, causing the detective to groan and try to fold over to protect his body, only to be stopped by his restraints.

John had finally gotten his breath back. He was going to attempt to draw Reid’s attention back to him when the killer strode away from Sherlock and back to the lie detector. John stared at Sherlock, wanting to ask how he was but afraid that it would cause Reid to hurt Sherlock again. Finally after what felt like ages, but could only have been a few seconds, Sherlock looked up and stared at John, giving a brief nod, which John desperately hoped meant that he was alright.

“Now, Dr. Watson, just a few more questions and then we will give your husband his turn to provide some information,” Reid stated, startling John with how quickly the killer had gone from furious to calm. “Why didn’t you intend to tell you husband your feelings? And remember to answer honestly.”

John sighed, quickly composing himself to answer before his time was up. “I’m a coward. I didn’t want to hurt myself by confirming what I already knew and forcing myself to leave. I also didn’t want to make Sherlock embarrassed and uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve that, he didn’t do anything to encourage my feelings.”

“I’ve read your blog, Dr. Watson. If your husband is as observant as you claim, did you honestly think you could hide it from him forever?”

“No, of course not. But I hoped that I could hide it from him long enough to force myself to move on and maybe even fall in love with someone else, though I doubted it would be anything like what I feel for him. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about him finding out and could stay his friend.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Falling in love with someone else when you’re married is a no-no,” Reid called, shaking a finger at him like he was a naughty school boy, his hand reaching out for the remote that would shock Sherlock.

“No, no. That’s not what I meant, you misunderstood,” John blurted out, frantic to stop another debilitating shock to the detective. “That was before we got married. Once we had the civil partnership ceremony I didn’t think that way.”

John tensed listening to the machine continued to beep softly, Reid’s hand continuing to hover over the trigger. Finally his hand moved away and he looked up at John, smiling. “You know what, Dr. Watson? I think I believe you. So one last question, how long have you been in love with your husband?”

“I don’t know! It’s not like I can pinpoint exactly when it happened! I was stupidly blind for a long time, but it finally hit me right around Jim Moriarty’s trial.”

“Ahhh… yes… the trial of the century that turned out to be yet another instance of your husband’s failure to control his wandering tongue,” Reid chuckled and John ground his teeth, holding in his reply. “You really think he would have learned by know. Well perhaps, another small lesson will help.”

“NO!” John screamed, as Sherlock once again shook from the electric current running through his body. Fortunately, this time it was over quickly, Reid letting up on the trigger within an instant of pressing.

“Well now, I think we’re ready to move onto the next stage of our little discussion,” Reid stated conversationally, watching the consulting detective’s head loll from side to side, as he seemed to fight to stay conscious. Smiling, Reid pressed a button on the lie detector and John heard it power down. He allowed his shoulders to sag and take a deep breath. His questioning was over. Hopefully, Sherlock would not be at risk of being electrocuted any more. He watched while Reid gathered up the print out the machine had produced and tucked it neatly into a file folder, before heading over to John, carrying the knife in his right hand once again.

Reid leaned over John’s chair, knife point resting just under the tip of John’s chin. “Now, Dr. Watson, I do ask that you behave for a moment.”

The killer quickly removed the leads coming from the lie detector. The blade nicked John’s chin when he flinched slightly when a lead was roughly removed along with some of his chest hair. Once done Reid moved back to the machine, he set down the knife and started untangling the wires and leads, his back to the room, looking completely unconcerned. John decided this was his last chance; he had to take advantage of this opportunity.

Without even bothering to glance at Sherlock, not wanting to see how badly injured his husband was, he leaned forward in the chair as far he could and planted his feet firmly on the ground and slightly under the seat. He took a deep breath to gather himself and then quickly stood and practically threw himself toward Reid. Moving forward, he desperately tried to keep himself upright, the extra weight of the chair sending fire down his injured leg as he rammed himself into Reid’s side. The combined weight allowed him to drive Reid into the lie detector, stunning the killer. John didn’t let Reid regain his balance, continuing to use the attached chair as a weapon. He slammed it and himself repeatedly into Davis Reid’s body, trying to knock him out or force him to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock shaking off the disorientation from the electrical shocks, standing up, and smashing his chair into the wall, before John’s attention was refocused onto Reid. The body slamming was fracturing the chair, loosening his bindings but causing him to be even more off balance as the chair weight was now distributed unevenly. Reid shoved hard and John, staggering backwards, frantically attempted to regain his footing, giving Reid a chance to get the lie detector between himself and John. John tried using his body weight to propel the lie detector into Reid and trap him against the wall but he couldn’t gather enough forward momentum. John resorted to reversing course and shifting away from Reid, attempting to lure him further from Sherlock, hopefully giving the consulting detective enough time to escape his bonds.

Reid had snatched up the knife from where it had fallen and advanced on John aggressively, even as John back peddled away from the killer, laboring to stay upright. “Army doctor or not, you will not win this fight. Why don’t you give up now and I won’t take too long over your death.”

John just laughed at the man, continuing to move around the room, dodging several knife strikes, and failing to dodge few more, which left him with superficial cuts across his ribs. At one point, he managed to slam his chair into Reid’s lower body, breaking several chair legs off in the process, the decreased weight making it easier to move. Then a moment later things went horribly wrong. John overbalanced, most of his weight landing on his injured leg. Pain seared through it and his knee folded under him, bringing him crashing to the ground, hard. John heard a snap when he landed; the arm of the chair had broken loose from the back, leaving John’s wrist attached to a small broken piece of the chair but with the ability to move freely.

John desperately tried to roll back on his feet, but Reid threw himself bodily on top of him, pinning him to the floor and swinging the knife toward John’s chest. John managed to grab the maniac’s wrist, forcing it away from his body. He brought his other arm around to swing his fist and the chair remnants into Reid’s side, making the man fall sideways off of him. This time unlike in the flat, John was able to keep a good grip on Reid’s wrist, slamming it repeatedly into the ground, eventually forcing Reid to drop the knife. John immediately shifted his grip slightly, allowing him to twist the joint so it broke with an audible crack as it hit the ground. Reid screamed in pain even as Reid’s other fist pummeled into the side of John’s face.

Reid’s fist was about to collide with John’s skull again when Sherlock came up from behind and swung a broken chair leg into the side of his head, the blow forcing Reid to roll away from John. Sherlock swung again, the chair leg connecting with the killer’s skull with a solid thud. Reid’s head lolled loosely to the side, clearly rendered senseless.

Sherlock raised his improvised weapon, obviously intending to hit the unconscious man again when John yelled out, “Sherlock! Stop! He’s unconscious.”

Faltering, Sherlock stood in place, arms frozen in a downswing, questioning eyes rising to look at John.

“He needs to pay for what he did to them Sherlock, and dying isn’t enough for the suffering he’s caused.”

Sherlock stared at John, his mind clearly considering all the possible outcomes of accepting John’s demand, trying to make a decision before he nodded stiffly. The detective tossed the chair leg to the side as he fell to his knees beside John, tugging ineffectively at the zip-ties holding John to the remains of the chair, hands shaking.

“John!” Sherlock breathed out raggedly, one hand scrambling to the side to grab the dagger, while John noticed his eyes intently taking in John’s appearance. “Christ. And the Yarders consider me the madman. You have multiple lacerations and contusions. Do you have any internal injuries I should be aware of?  What about a concussion? Excessive blood loss?”

“No, Sherlock, no concussion, and none of the wounds are deep enough to cause too much bleeding,” John said shaking his head, attempting to breathe slowly, stay in battle mentality, rather than give into the pain and fear. “But after you tie up this wanker, we need to get out of this room. I need to examine you to make sure you’re stable and I need to find some water for myself. Hopefully you can find something so I can clean the leg wound and get to a hospital pretty quick. That knife is fifthly and the original wound has already gone septic. And it doesn’t take a consulting detective to know the other ones are sure to be infected,” John finished jokingly, giving Sherlock a half-smile hoping to calm Sherlock, as he fought to keep the army doctor in the forefront of his mind, rather than give into the pain and fear.

“I can’t prove it without a thermometer, but I suspect my temperature is approaching 39 degrees Celsius. Septic shock is shortly going to be a reality. I need fluids and antibiotics quickly to slow it down.” John paused, gathering his courage to admit, “It’s going to get ugly Sherlock. As my fever goes up I’m probably going to start hallucinating. If that happens before an ambulance gets here, you may have to restrain me.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was working to tie up Reid, his expression shocked and, John thought, possibly frightened. “Why would I restrain you?”

John shivered a little as a spike of pain ran through his body, ignoring it as he pushed himself upright. “Sherlock, if you think my nightmares about Afghanistan and your fall are bad, the fever dreams are guaranteed to be worse. And it’s possible that I may attack you thinking I’m defending myself. I struck an orderly when I was hallucinating after Afghanistan. Promise me you won’t let me hurt you,” John finished vehemently, the last sentence forcing itself out around the tremors starting to run up his body.

Sherlock huffed derisively as he stood finished tying up Reid. “John, you would never hurt me. But if you require my word, I promise not to let you injury me or anyone else, including yourself.”

John gave the consulting detective a hard look before deciding to accept his word. “Good. If I can’t ask I will also need you to make sure the police get the dagger to the hospital. The lab can culture it and my wound to check for resistant bacteria. The results won’t be in for a couple of days, so it won’t affect how they treat me initially, but it may affect my long term treatment regimen.”

“Of course. And as I have liberated Mr. Reid of his keys, I suggest we go determine our location,” Sherlock said, hand out to help John to his feet.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock had led them from what turned out to be a reinforced bunker in the farmhouse basement, had retrieved their mobile phones from the outer room and had stood impatiently while John had done a quick exam determining that the detective had several cracked and possibly fractured ribs, a mild concussion, bruised kidneys, and needed at minimum a day of monitoring his heart on an EKG to make sure it hadn’t been damaged by the repeated electrical current.  Sherlock was currently talking with Lestrade, demanding his presence and an ambulance. Finishing with a growled, “Now, Lestrade,” Sherlock tossed the mobile aside and came over to kneel next to the couch, watching John penetratingly. John had set himself up on it and was doing his best to clean his wounds using one of the ‘cleaner’ rags he had discovered, along with some water he had boiled on the fortunately working kitchen stove they found upstairs.

John turned to look at him, grinning tightly and trying to reassure an agitated Sherlock. “On their way then?” John said through the rapidly worsening tremors.

“Yes, Lestrade showed a practically astounding level of intelligence and was having our phones monitored. Once I turned them on they had our GPS location. Is there any manner in which I could assist you?”

“Talk to me,” John requested, “give me something to focus on.”

And Sherlock did, telling John about the room they were in, detailing how many couples Reid had held here, although fortunately not what they might have endured. When he finished the room, he went on with deductions about their location; explaining that they were on a farm at least twenty minutes from the nearest suburban region, perhaps an hour or more north of London, likely in the home of one of Reid’s deceased relatives. Sherlock’s unceasing talking and deducing kept John in the here and now until the first responders arrived. Then Sherlock barged his way into the ambulance with him, staying shockingly out of the way, watching the paramedics trying to stabilize him as they raced to the hospital, John’s shaking and fever slowly worsening the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I have to apologize to my readers, once again I took a ridiculously long time to finish a chapter. I hope all of my amazing readers found this worth the wait and can forgive me. I make no promises about when the next chapter will be out, but I promise this story will be finished.
> 
> I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, alert, and favorite. Everyone’s encourage me to do better and improve myself. The reviews also helped me keep going when I only had a minute or two a day to scratch out ideas. In addition want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who had to deal with me falling off the map and the internet for a while as I dealt with the real world. Her support and understanding kept me going when I thought I couldn’t write this one and as always her excellent advice challenged me to make a better story.
> 
> Thanks,
> 
> Rairakku


	17. Ripples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
> 
> Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock, Specific References to The Reichenbach Fall
> 
> Story Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
> 
> Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.

Some small distant part of John knew that he was hallucinating, but that knowledge didn’t help him escape them. Soldiers, some of them old friends, paced through his room bleeding, screaming, railing at him, demanding to know why he hadn’t fixed him, accusing him of being useless, a failure. John could smell the acrid air of the desert, feel the sand under his boots, the heat of the daytime sun pounding down, alternating with the freezing cold of the night. Then insurgents were tying him down, gabbling meaningless words at him, and pain flooded him, radiating up from his leg. Oh god, he had been shot again.

And then he was back on the street outside St. Bart’s, watching Sherlock fall, listening to Sherlock on the mobile, wanting to know why John hadn’t been quicker, why he hadn’t stopped him from dying. Unexpectedly he was once more back in the desert, mortars falling, and there in front of him was Sherlock, bleeding into the unforgiving sand. He screamed for his supplies, calling for hemostats and bandages, but no one would reply. He didn’t understand what he had done with his kit, and then he realized he couldn’t get to the Sherlock, he couldn’t move, he was trapped. John panicked. John must have been captured, he was going to be tortured and Sherlock was going to die. Die because John couldn’t get to him, because he allowed himself to be taken.

Suddenly he wasn’t alone, Sherlock was there standing between him and the soldiers pacing angrily in the room, the insurgents holding John down, in front of the dead Sherlock on the sidewalk, the dying Sherlock in the desert. He was vaguely aware that all three of the Sherlocks he was seeing couldn’t actually be there, just like part of him knew the soldiers and insurgents weren’t real, but he didn’t want this newest Sherlock to go away. It was so nice not to be alone with his demons and the feel of Sherlock’s hand holding his, Sherlock’s lips pressing occasionally to his knuckles, and the hand on his forehead that was so comforting. He knew the Sherlock talking to him wasn’t his Sherlock, just as he was aware that his Sherlock wasn’t actually bleeding out on the sandy floor, because his Sherlock would never say such wonderful words, murmuring over and over that John was not to leave, that John needed to fight to stay with him, that Sherlock needed him, that he had something important to tell him if he would only come back. The imaginary Sherlock held back the sand and blood with his words, giving John the strength to force the images away.

John thought that maybe this Sherlock would forgive him if he explained, would understand that John hadn’t meant to tell him what Sherlock wouldn’t want to know. “Sorry…Didn’t mean to tell you…didn’t want to burden you…forgive me…sorry…sorry…love you…sorry…wouldn’t have bothered you with it…couldn’t let him hurt you…please forgive me…love you too much…” John muttered over and over to the Sherlock next to his bed, begging to be forgiven, to not have to leave, wishing that the comforting words he imagined in reply could actually be real as he finally slipped into blessed darkness.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

John opened his eyes to a stark white ceiling, sighing as he discovered he was once again lying in a hospital bed, trying to remember what he was doing there. The memories returned, coming back to him in a rush - Sherlock lying injured on the floor, the knife fight, and then waking in that chair, the tortuous interview that followed, the desperate fight to escape. Knots appeared in John’s stomach, remembering what he had been compelled to reveal to keep Sherlock safe, what Sherlock now knew.

John forced himself to look around his room, to once again take in his surroundings, not performing a threat assessment this time, but distracting himself from pain. He found himself in a rather nice private room, so nice it could double as a bachelor flat with John’s spacious bed, a well-proportioned couch with pillows and a throw, and nice sized table with chairs - Mycroft must have felt obligated to step in. He wondered how much pity the erstwhile British Government was feeling for him to put Sherlock’s overly emotional ex-flatmate up in this room. The only thing not present was John’s temporary husband.

John supposed he should be grateful to have time to prepare himself to face Sherlock and the consequences of John’s unruly feelings. He took a ragged breath and pushed that thought aside. He needed to focus on assessing his medical condition. His self-examination revealed that the superficial knife wounds on his chest and arms had been cleaned and bandaged, a few of the deeper ones had been sutured. His leg wound had been cleaned and bandaged with a couple of drains coming out of it. That, along with the multiple saline IV lines laced with antibiotics and vague memory of delirium nightmares, was a pretty clear indicator that he had been right about the septicemia. He sighed, acknowledging to himself that the limp was going to be real again, at least for several weeks. John tried to sit up and reach the end of the bed to snag his chart but the aching in the cuts over his ribs and his leg convinced him that this was a bad idea.

Without anything else to distract him, John’s thoughts inevitably circled back to his flatmate. Sherlock knew and he couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John couldn’t control his wayward heart, John knew that. But since John refused to make the man uncomfortable, he was going to have to make some decision about what he was going to do when released from the hospital. If John was nothing else he was a solider – he would keep moving forward, the question would be how and where. John wondered vaguely, gazing at his bare ring finger, if Mycroft had already filed the paperwork for their divorce. And if Sherlock would just arrange for his stuff to be moved while John was in the hospital or if he would let John apologize and say goodbye.

At least with this separation, John would know Sherlock was alive and well; that was better than last time. Perhaps eventually Mrs. Hudson would forgive him enough for faking their relationship and John’s soon to be abrupt departure from Baker Street to have pity on him and occasionally tell him how Sherlock was doing. Thank goodness for Mrs. Hudson. John was sure the genius would need everything she could give to make sure he ate enough and occasionally slept.

He started when Sherlock abruptly whirled into the room. Catching himself, John quickly blanked his expression to hide his emotions from the consulting detective while watching Sherlock stand motionless, apparently stunned that John was awake, his face taking on an air which John didn’t recognize or understand. Sherlock strode to his side, his countenance becoming more controlled but with a hint of concern that John hadn’t expected. John’s jaw dropped slightly, unable to grasp the fact that Sherlock was even here, not only in the room with him but gazing at him with worry.

The consulting detective gripped John’s ringless left hand in his right, his left hand rising to John’s forehead, presumably checking his temperature. “Excellent. You’re finally fully aware. I apologize for not being here when you woke. I knew I shouldn’t have let those bunglers convince me it was appropriate to leave the room to discuss your test results, they could just as well have updated me here. How does your leg feel?”

John sat frozen, continuing to stare at the consulting detective, unable to process the situation. “John? What’s wrong? John, can you understand me?” Sherlock’s hands shifted to rest on his face, which he tipped upward, allowing the detective to peer intently into John’s eyes. “They assured me that you had not been hyperthermic long enough to cause permanent damage to your brain,” Sherlock demanded, agitation evident.

John forced himself to answer, focusing on the medical, shoving his emotions to the back of his mind, his hands coming up to remove Sherlock’s from his face. “I’m fine, Sherlock. The leg aches a little and I’m slightly disorientated. Give me a moment, I just woke up.” John tried a reassuring smile, which apparently didn’t help much judging by the look on Sherlock’s face. “Given that I was hallucinating pretty badly the fever must have been quite high for a while there, huh?”

“41 degrees Celsius.”

John started, “Christ. Good thing we busted loose when we did then, huh, or Reid would’ve had half his job done for him by the wound.” Sherlock glared, apparently not enjoying John’s gallows humor. John decided to ignore Sherlock’s expression and waved a hand absently at his surroundings. “How long have I been here, wherever here is, anyway?”

“We’re in a private hospital in Bishop's Stortford.”

“Bishop’s Stortford! Wait, isn’t that the town the Ashdowns and Reid were all from? How did we end up here?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose at this sudden inquisition. “Patience, John. The farm Reid took us to was his second cousin’s, which, as I suspected, is roughly twenty-five minutes outside of Bishop’s Stortford. We arrived at the hospital a little over thirty-six hours ago. Your fever broke completely approximately twelve hours ago and these rubbish doctors immediately gave you something to make you sleep. They insisted it was important in order for you to recover your strength once you were out of danger.”

Sherlock left hand retook John’s while he continued speaking, and the other slowly carded through John’s hair, adding to John’s confusion. “You managed to give me quite the scare, oh husband of mine. You were unfortunately correct about the septicemia, and these incompetents remained unable to inform me if you would respond to the antibiotics until you finally did. The final culture report is due back soon, but the doctors insist you’re doing well. Your most recent lab work shows that your kidney and liver functions appear uncompromised, and your white blood cell count is elevated which they assure me prove that your body is working efficiently to fight off the infection.”

John was only half listening to Sherlock’s detailing his medical condition, more focused on drinking in the sight of Sherlock in his room. A Sherlock who wasn’t avoiding him, a Sherlock who had apparently forgiven him, perhaps even had deleted his awareness of John’s emotions, a Sherlock that John could stay friends with. The consulting detective continued to look at him, puzzlement visibly growing. “You still appear to be exceptionally disorientated, are you certain you’re feeling all right? Should I call for the doctors?”

“No, no, I’m just tired. They’ll want to examine me again now that I’m awake, but there’s no rush and I would prefer to be a little more prepared before being descended upon.” John noticed Sherlock wincing slightly when the man shifted his weight, prompting him to ask, “Sherlock, are you okay?”

John frowned, looking closely at his flatmate. He didn’t remember Sherlock being severely injured but his memory of the abduction wasn’t perfect and his fever had already been rising when they broke free, he could have easily missed something. There was a bandage on Sherlock’s forehead over the cut John remembered, and John could see the outline of more bandages under his tight shirt. “Did he break your ribs? How’s your heart?”

“I’m fine, John. Numerous cracked ribs, but no dislocated fractures, and my EKG showed no abnormalities. I have bruised kidneys, and some useless internist insisted on sewing up the cut on my forehead.”

“Quite rightly too,” John said, nodding to himself, awash with relief. “That’s good. What are they giving you for pain? And you’re drinking plenty of clear liquids? That will help flush your system and dilute the blood in your urine a bit, make it somewhat less painful to use the loo, although it will probably be several days to a week for that to clear entirely. Standard three to five weeks for your ribs to set? What about any sign of pneumothorax?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did deign to reply to John’s questions, “Yes, Dr. Watson. I’m keeping myself well-hydrated on clear liquids. And they’re giving me Tramadol for the pain, although given that both Mycroft and Lestrade individually informed them of my history, they’re providing me with only one dose at a time and charting all of them as I’m technically still a patient here, despite the fact that I removed their exasperating IV. And I have no indications of pneumothorax on my radiographs, and yes three to five weeks for my ribs to heal. Satisfied?”

John huffed slightly at Sherlock’s spiel, but didn’t feel it was worth the effort to argue with him, so he nodded and inquired, “Right then, what happened to Davis Reid?”

Sherlock didn’t reply immediately, but reached behind himself with his foot to snag a chair closer to John’s bedside, the movement causing him to lean forward slightly and John saw a flash of silver swing around his neck. John frowned and looked closer. Sherlock was wearing John’s wedding ring on one of the chains Molly had gifted them. He looked up questioningly at Sherlock, who smiled back. “Ahh…yes, Lestrade retrieved our wedding rings when he and the forensics team began taking apart Reid’s cousin’s farm. He agreed to return them once they were processed for fingerprint evidence. At the moment he has already compiled sufficient evidence to convict Reid of more than seventeen murders, and not incidentally our kidnapping, without them remaining in evidence.”

John stared, suddenly taking in that Sherlock’s ring was back on his left hand. Why would Sherlock have put the ring back on? The case was over. Wouldn’t he have told Lestrade what they had done to solve it? He reveled in divulging the details of his plans and enjoying everyone’s reactions. Thoughts chased themselves around John’s confused and tired brain, while Sherlock continued, “Lestrade also left me updated case notes that indicate Anderson’s team is showing a surprising level of competence in the ongoing excavations at Reid’s home and at his cousin’s farm. Of course we’ll have to examine the farm ourselves once the doctors release you.”

John frowned; Sherlock’s words seemed to suggest that he hadn’t returned to the farm.  Although Sherlock was rarely concerned about the details of the crown prosecution, he tended to want to ensure he had full command of all the data available. John supposed since he had solved the case by capturing Reid, the rest was significantly less interesting to him, and he wanted to avoid some of the boring evidence-gathering bits. “Did they find Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law?”

“Unknown,” Sherlock replied, shifting in his chair, starting to raise his right leg to rest on his left knee before wincing and laying a hand on his ribs, setting his foot back on the floor. Through it all his hand still remained clasped around John’s. “Lestrade’s notes indicate that Reid was slightly more careful in his choice of burial sites. Although, once again bodies are marked by rose and yew bushes, he spread them out in a small copse of woods behind the farm house. So far, five additional bodies have been discovered by Toby the cadaver dog and the ground penetrating radar, but they have only explored about a third of the woods. Additionally, Lestrade informs me that they don’t have enough trained personnel to start excavation at the new sites until sometime next week.”

And that might explain Sherlock’s presence here instead of at the farm. Of course, it didn’t explain the rings, or why the genius was holding his hand. John wasn’t even sure where to go from here. Should he ask about the rings, should he ask about the divorce, the case, the handholding, for a doctor? Finally when he couldn’t bear the silence anymore, “What happens next, then?”

“I assume that you could answer that question better than I,” Sherlock pronounced. “I imagine your useless doctors are going to require you to stay here for several more days until the drains are removed, at which point you will be discharged back to Baker Street on copious amounts of medication. Once home Mrs. Hudson will commence hovering over you making endless cups of tea and declaring not to be our housekeeper while fluffing pillows. Lestrade will require us to fill out mountains of paperwork and lecture us repeatedly about going undercover without informing him, and in approximately nineteen days we will go on our honeymoon, again presuming your doctors clear you for travel.”

“Our honeymoon?” John gabbled out after a long moment.

Sherlock frowned, apparently irritated. “John, I really am going to insist that we call the doctors sooner rather than later if you insist on asking inane questions. You booked our honeymoon yourself. Remember hoi polloi avoidance and hard drive defragmentation?”

“Yeah, but,” John started, only to stutter to a stop when a nurse entered the room.

“Oh! Dr. Watson, you’re awake,” the young women exclaimed, Sherlock’s eyes rolling, presumably at the statement of the obvious, before she turned a scolding tone onto the man still holding John’s hand in a loose grasp. “Mr. Holmes, you promised Dr. Egan that you would hit the call button the instant he was conscious. It was the only reason he allowed Dr. Watson to be moved out of the ICU and into this private room.”

Sherlock managed to shrug haughtily without replying even as she quickly bustled over to the phone, paging the doctor and beginning to record John’s vitals. The next hour was spent answering questions, asking questions, and going over his chart and expected aftercare in extensive detail. It probably didn’t need to take that long but John wasn’t quite ready to be alone with Sherlock again, and despite what the consulting detective had implied John had found Dr. Egan, ‘call me Andrew’, to be an intelligent and competent surgeon, with an excellent bedside manner. They were still swapping stories when the man was paged away.

Sherlock didn’t look up as the surgeon left, a scowl planted firmly on the genius’s face as he tapped away aggressively at his mobile. John’s eyebrow rose. “Anderson do something foolish again?”

“Anderson is always doing something preposterous, however that isn’t my current concern. Lestrade is inquiring if the two of us would be willing to come to Scotland Yard once the doctors have released you. Apparently Davis Reid has already arranged a deal with the crown prosecutors. He will confess to all of the murders and accept a life sentence without the possibility of parole if and only if we are present for his confession.” Sherlock looked up, an intent air about him. “They want to know if we are willing to agree.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock frowned. “I realize that you likely consider that this is your duty to the crown or some such nonsense, but they have more than sufficient evidence to convict him without a confession, there is no need to subject yourself to additional horrors.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Sherlock, but it’s alright, what’s a few more nightmares. Plus if it saves the families some of the trauma, it’s worth it.”

“Always the healer and the solider, my John.” Sherlock’s murmured, face taking on a contemplative expression. “Why did you never ask me what Moriarty threatened in order to force me to jump?”

“What?” John was completely thrown by shift in topic, unsure how they had gone from discussing listening to a serial killer’s confession to Sherlock’s Fall. “Ummm… I don’t know, never really got around to it I suppose, and then after a while it just didn’t seem important. You’d stopped whatever bomb or disaster that psychopath had planned. You explained how you and Molly managed it, and we had it out, multiple times I might remind you, about the idiocy of not letting me help. You never apologized, but you did finally grudgingly concede that perhaps even if it wasn’t safe to inform me of your plans preemptively, you could have arranged for me to be brought into the loop after the fact instead of leaving me grieving for seven months. Anyway after all that, why didn’t seem important. Moriarty was dead, his network was essentially destroyed, and you were back. That’s what I needed to know.”

“Ahh… John, questions are the vital first step in the deductive process. I fear that once again you have missed an important detail and therefore failed to gather essential data.”

“Fine, what did he hold over your head, you arrogant twat,” John demanded, about a half inch from losing his temper with his flatmate. He wasn’t feeling well enough to deal with one of Sherlock’s lectures on observation and deduction.

“Not what, who.”

“Well who then!” John snapped.

“Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you.”

John couldn’t even come up with a reply, he just gaped blankly at Sherlock, mind empty. Sherlock smirked, continuing, “Surprised. I was too. It was apparent that my suicide was the end move of Moriarty’s game, and that some additional threat was being made against the three of you. The IOUs made that perfectly clear, but I fear that I didn’t expect anything quite so blatant as threatening your deaths.”

“IOUs?” John asked confused, for now ignoring the information that he, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg had their lives threatened, “What are you talking about?”

“The first one was carved into an apple when Moriarty came for tea, an obvious threat against you.”

“Ummmm… Sorry, not seeing it. I thought that was about him planting the imaginary computer key, and you know, being creepy. So why wouldn’t it just be a visible statement of the threat against you? It’s not like he appreciated you derailing his plots.”

“Oh, John, why waste a perfectly good visit to accomplish only one thing when he could accomplish two. Now, think, he enjoyed riddles, rhymes, metaphors, proverbs, and fairytales.” When John continued to look confused, Sherlock sighed, “An apple a day…”

“Keeps the doctor away. Oh… Of course,” John finished, thinking hard. “Okay, fairytales, metaphors. Umm… The envelope on the front step, the one full of breadcrumbs, you were following Moriarty’s trail of clues. He was using them to set you up but you were following them. And the burnt gingerbread man, that was you right? He was burning the heart out of you and saying you couldn’t run away from him.” He frowned deeply. “I still don’t see what you mean about threats against Greg and Mrs. Hudson, neither of those clues relate at all to either of them.”

“Correct in all particulars, John,” Sherlock said, smiling benevolently, which only irritated John more. “Don’t blame yourself for missing the other two. Moriarty arranged it so that I was the only one to see Lestrade’s. Three letters spray painted on the windows of the building across from the Yard the night of the kidnapping, and then quickly covered with blinds. It also marked the second step in my fall, planting doubts in the minds of the yarders, which of course leads us back to Baker Street and our wonderful landlady, Mrs. Hudson. You were a touch busy being a hostage at the time but as we rounded the corner and left Baker Street that night there was some lovely new angel wing graffiti centered around the letters IOU on the empty house.”

“Mrs. Hudson, and Moriarty’s last coffin nail in your image,” John summarized softly. “Christ, Sherlock. Why did you never tell me?”

“When I first came back, I thought you knew about the three snipers. You wanted to know if the threat had been eliminated. Took me almost two days to figure out that you knew there was a threat but hadn’t worked out precisely what it was. As you have pointed out repeatedly I am somewhat oblivious to sentiment, so I determined that the best course of action was to allow you to ask me when you were ready.”

“I just… well, I just figured it never mattered. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed.” John paused for a moment, still not sure how he felt about the information, mind still spinning. “And can I just ask how we got onto this topic? Not that I regret learning the information, I’m just not sure how we got here.”

“We got here because you needed to know precisely how important you are to me for the rest of this discussion.” Sherlock leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, fingertips steepling under his chin in the prayer position, gaze intent on John’s face. “Moriarty’s choices weren’t random, he was attacking three specific people in my life. Those who he felt tied me to the side of angels, who made me ordinary.”

The pause that followed Sherlock’s words, was taut. John lay unmoving on the bed, unable to speak not knowing the right words. “Lestrade is simple, he is my access to the Yard, to the Work, and a somewhat tolerable acquaintance.” A shot of humor went through John at Sherlock’s grudging admission of Greg’s friendship. “Mrs. Hudson, one of my more successful early cases, and even before that CIA trained moron injured her, it would have been extremely apparent to Moriarty that I hold her in high regard.”

“You treat her like a beloved relative,” John asserted softly, “and she obviously adores you, even if you find the worst possible way of breaking bad news about her boyfriends to her.” Memories of harpoons and men with wives in Doncaster ran through his head.

“Irrelevant to the current discussion, John. Particularly since you made me promise to tell you immediately if any of her romantic interests are less than honorable men,” Sherlock said, gaze still intent on John’s face. “What we should be discussing is why did he pick you?”

“Because I’m your friend, your closest friend.”

“Yes, you’re my friend, but that’s not why he targeted you,” Sherlock disclosed, leaning back in his chair.

John frowned. “Well, if not that then what? I wasn’t a threat to his plan to destroy you, even when you were gone and I knew Moriarty’s stories were lies, no one would listen to me, I couldn’t prove anything.”

“Actually, John, you were the biggest threat to his scheme, and likely the reason he finally decided to go through with his attempt to finish me.”

“What! Why?” John asked, confusion and pain ripping through him at possibly being the cause of Sherlock’s Fall.

“Because you are the physical embodiment of my heart,” Sherlock stated bluntly. “The proof that not only can Sherlock Holmes have and keep a friend, but that he can fall in love.”

No sound came out of John’s mouth. It just hung there open, because John knew that there was no way he had actually just heard what he thought he’d heard. “Yes, John, fall in love,” Sherlock said, a frighteningly smug grin on his face. “As loath as I am to admit it, you have pulled me into your world of caring and sentiment.” The detective leaned forward, apparently to emphasize his words, “And I wouldn’t go back even if I could.”

John inhaled sharply, not breaking Sherlock’s gaze, articulating each word slowly, carefully, “Let me make sure I’m following you since I usually miss something of importance. You,” one hand coming up to point at Sherlock, “have fallen in love with me.” He brought his hand around to point at himself.

“Yes.”

“Okay… Okay.” John was pretty sure his brain was locking up, “Okay.”

Sherlock chuckled, leaning back in his chair, one hand swinging out to retake John’s. “Surprised. You shouldn’t be. Although this wasn’t exactly the way I had planned to break the news to you, or how I was going to inform you that I have been aware of your feelings for some time. I would have preferred to have this conversation in Baker Street and with you not hopped up on copious amounts of pain relievers. I had intended to start this conversation prior to our vacation. I presumed while on it we could complete some of the more annoying required relationship tête-à-têtes. Several internet sites list fifteen things every couple should discuss prior to marriage, and although we are already married I expect both you and Mrs. Hudson would lecture me to a maddening degree if we didn’t talk about them. Although I feel we covered the financial question in detail the other night.”

John’s mouth opened, a strangled noise erupting from him before he swallowed, clearing his throat. “Ummmm….. You love me… as a friend, a brother-in-arms sort of way.”

“John! Now you’re just being purposely obtuse, brothers-in-arms don’t have discussions about finances and marriage.”

“Right. Sorry. So how long have you known?”  John asked, avoiding the question of what exactly love meant to Sherlock.

“How long have I known that you’re in love with me or how long have I been in love with you?”

“Either, git,” John snapped, suddenly irritated about how much fun Sherlock seemed to having with this situation.

Sherlock’s smile increased John’s exasperation level, “How typically you, John. You never react quite the way I expect you to.” His smile remained, his hand playing absently with John’s fingers, even while he continued, “You admitted your love for me to yourself sometime around Moriarty’s trial, although I’m compelled to admit that I deduced that information with the clear vision of hindsight and not at the time. I was only certain of the fact after you broke up with Mary.”

“Mary? How did—” John started to ask only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

“You broke up with her because you felt guilty. You feared you were using her,” Sherlock said, voice frighteningly gentle. “You didn’t. And your choice finally made your feelings clear to me.”

“That’s when you noticed?”

“Not my best work admittedly.” Sherlock shrugged, “Sentiment is a disadvantage, clouds the issue and muddles the mind. If you weren’t such a wonderful inspiration to my genius, the damage you do to my mind the rest of the time would be inexcusable. As it is you are ridiculously invaluable, and I refuse to do without you ever again.”

“Do without me?”

“Yes. You’re not allowed to leave me, and I will be dragging you along with me, willingly or unwillingly, if the Work ever requires an extended leave of absences from London again.”

John’s mouth opened and closed several times, words refusing to travel from his brain to his mouth. The more Sherlock spoke, the more hope slowly rose in John, the pain of it tightening his chest, and drowning out the throbbing in his leg. He finally came out with, “You know one person can’t legally tell another person what they are or are not allowed to do in this country.”

Sherlock laughed, the one of true enjoyment only John got to see. “And that, my John, is why I love you.” 

John’s jaw dropped, “Because I make you laugh.”

“Because you make me laugh, because you laugh with me, because you say ‘amazing’ not ‘piss off’, because you are handsome, because you fear for me, because you don’t just tolerate me - you willingly and happily enjoy being my friend, because you are you.  There are so many reasons, John, that we could be here all day.”

“Not sure I would mind, Sherlock, it’s not that often that you compliment me. Have to enjoy it while I can,” John said, a dazed smile spreading across his face. Sherlock loved him, and god, he managed to say it in a way that was so completely Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked, a typically evil Sherlock smirk, dropping John’s hand to reach up behind his neck, wincing at the pressure this movement put on his ribs, to unclasp the chain around his neck. John watched as the detective stood slowly and stepped to the side of the bed, leaning slightly over John, picking up his left hand and sliding the ring back home on his finger, before leaning down and, in an obviously deliberate move, kissing his ring finger again. Sherlock’s head rose from his bent position to meet John’s eyes, still smirking. “Much better, those idiot doctors refused to let me put it back on until you had significantly improved. They insisted that the metal could have caused localized frost bite if they had to repeat the ice bath to decrease your temperature again.”

John settled himself by taking a deep breath and then he used his free hand to push himself up slightly, ignoring the pain of stretching sutures on his chest, stopping when his face was mere inches from the consulting detective’s. “I love you.”

Sherlock smiled widely, and John couldn’t wait a second longer, moving forward the final few inches and softly brushing his mouth against Sherlock’s. It was soft, sensual, and sweet. It was nothing like he would have expected and beyond what he had ever hoped for or allowed himself to imagine. It lasted for a lingering moment, a gentle brush of lips, neither pushing farther, John just savoring the newness, before Sherlock broke it off, slowly straightening up, grimacing in pain, the detectives’ hand tightening painful around John’s fingers. “Sherlock? Are you alright? Your ribs?”

He nodded, tightly. John pulled himself further upright. “Inhale slowly and gently, your muscles will gradually relax and the pain will pass.”

It took several momentsbut gradually the lines of pain in Sherlock’s posture eased, and he slowly sat back down looking wan. And John gradually started to chuckle, the absurdity of the situation setting in, and he leaned back in his bed, exhausted physically and emotionally.  Sherlock gave him an inquiring look, and John just waved a hand around the room. “Just you know, us, this situation. This is now the most ridiculous thing I have done, and I not only invaded Afghanistan, I’ve been chasing your sorry arse around London on your ludicrous cases.” 

Sherlock tried to look vaguely offended at the term ‘ludicrous’, but John noticed that he couldn’t seem to override the soft smile hovering on his lips. “You should get some sleep, Sherlock. You look drained. I’m fine. There has to be a hotel somewhere around here you can get a room for the night.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, really I’m alright and there is no way you’re going to get any rest in that chair with your busted ribs.”

“I’ve no intention of sleeping in this chair.”

John glared at him. “You need to sleep and rest or you aren’t going to heal properly.”

“Of course and there is a perfectly good bed for me in here.”

Both of John’s eyebrow’s attempted to climb his forehead at this statement, glancing at the only bed he could see in the room—his. “Despite how large this bed is, there’s no way you and I can fit in it without hurting your ribs, or my leg, Sherlock. There simply isn’t enough room, no matter how enticing the offer would be if my leg, sides and head weren’t throbbing to three separate rhythms.”

“Enticing, that’s encouraging,” Sherlock stated baldly, smirking when John’s face went red, recognizing what he had admitted, but smiling anyway because Sherlock was flirting with him. “However, I wasn’t referring to your bed. The couch contains a hide-away that I’m sure Mycroft’s goons can be convinced to pull out and set up for me.”

John yawned while he asked, “Goons?”

“Yes, brother was concerned that the press might attempt to bother us for interviews and felt that the hospital’s security would not be sufficient in keeping them away. I allowed it only because it was either them or some of the local PCs. Mycroft’s men are more likely to fetch and carry for me.”

John smiled sleepily at the oh so Sherlock snarking, trying to stay awake to ask more questions, wanting to know more about Sherlock’s feelings, when he had fallen in love with him, how the detective expected their relationship to work, and utterly failing. He felt lips softly brush his forehead, and the last thing he heard before exhaustion pulled him back under was Sherlock’s voice in his ear, “Sleep well, my John. I’ll promise to answer all those bees buzzing around in your bonnet when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FanFiction Writer Notes: I want to thank all my amazing readers for hanging in there with me. I hope that once again you find this worth the wait. As always, I can make no promises about when the next chapter will be out, but I promise this story will be finished.
> 
> I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, alert, and favorite. Your encouragement and suggestions are wonderful. In addition I want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews.
> 
> Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who helped me work through some huge emotional beats in this chapter. Her support and advice was invaluable.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Rairakku


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